DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


JENNY 


THE  BORZ O I-GYLDEN DAL  BOOKS 


HE  firm  of  Gyldendal  [Gyldendalske 


Boghandel  Nordisk  Forlag]  is  the  old- 


est and  greatest  publishing  house  in 
Scandinavia,  and  has  been  responsible,  since  its 
inception  in  1770,  for  giving  to  the  world  some 
of  the  greatest  Danish  and  Norwegian  writers 
of  three  centuries.  Among  them  are  such 
names  as  Ibsen,  Bjørnstjerne  Bjørnson,  Pon- 
toppidan,  Brandes,  Gjellerup,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen,  and  Knut  Hamsun,  the  Nobel  Prize 
winner  for  1920,  whose  works  I am  publishing 
in  America. 

It  is  therefore  with  particular  satisfaction 
that  I announce  the  completion  of  arrange- 
ments whereby  I shall  bring  out  in  this  country 
certain  of  the  publications  of  this  famous 
house.  The  books  listed  below  are  the  first  of 
the  Borzoi-Gyldendal  books. 


A Tale  of  the  Early  Days  of  Iceland. 
Translated  from  the  Danish  of  Gun- 
nar Gunnarsson  [Icelandic]  by  C. 
Field  and  W.  Emmé. 


Grim:  the  Story  of  a Pike 


Translated  from  the  Danish  of 
Svend  Fleuron  by  Jessie  Muir  and 
W.  Emmé. 

Illustrated  in  black  and  white  by 
Dorothy  P.  Lathrop. 


The  Sworn  Brothers 


ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Publisher,  NEW  YORK 


J E 


Y 


N N 

A NOVEL 


TRANSLATED  FROM 
THE  NORWEGIAN  OF 


SIGRID  UNDSET 

BY  W.  EMMÉ 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  • A • KNOPF 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 


839.8 %3 % 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PART  ONE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/jenny01unds 


I 


AS  Helge  Gram  turned  the  comer  into  Via  Condotti 
in  the  dusk  a military  band  came  down  the  street 
playing  “ The  Merry  Widow  ” in  such  a crazy,  whirl- 
ing time  that  it  sounded  like  wild  bugle  calls.  The  small,  dark 
soldiers  rushed  past  in  the  cold  afternoon,  more  like  a Roman 
cohort  intent  on  attacking  barbarian  hosts  than  peaceful  men 
returning  to  their  barracks  for  supper.  That  was  perhaps  the 
cause  of  their  haste,  Helge  thought,  smiling  to  himself,  for  as 
he  stood  there  watching  them,  his  coat-collar  turned  up  for  the 
cold,  a peculiar  atmosphere  of  history  had  pervaded  him  — but 
suddenly  he  found  himself  humming  the  same  tune,  and  con- 
tinued his  way  in  the  direction  where  he  knew  the  Corso  lay. 

He  stopped  at  the  corner  and  looked.  So  that  was  the 
Corso  — an  endless  stream  of  carriages  in  a crowded  street, 
and  a surging  throng  of  people  on  a narrow  pavement. 

He  stood  still,  watching  the  stream  run  past  him,  and  smiled 
at  the  thought  that  he  could  drift  along  this  street  every  even- 
ing in  the  dusk  among  the  crowds,  until  it  became  as  familiar 
to  him  as  the  best-known  thoroughfare  of  his  own  city  — Chris- 
tiania. He  was  suddenly  seized  with  the  wish  to  walk  and 
walk  — now  and  all  night  maybe  — through  all  the  streets  of 
Rome,  for  he  thought  of  the  town  as  it  had  appeared  to  him 
a while  ago  when  he  was  looking  down  on  it  from  Pincio,  while 
the  sun  was  setting. 

Clouds  all  over  the  western  sky,  close  together  like  small  pale 
grey  lambkins,  and  as  the  sun  sank  behind  him  it  painted  their 
linings  a glorious  amber.  Beneath  the  pale  skies  lay  the  city, 
and  Helge  understood  that  this  was  the  real  Rome  — not  the 

9 


a r q /?  9 
G o C ■&  & 


10  JENNY 

Rome  of  his  imagination  and  his  dreams,  but  Rome  as  she 
actually  was. 

Everything  else  he  had  seen  on  his  journey  had  disappointed 
him,  for  it  was  not  what  he  had  imagined  at  home  when  he  had 
been  longing  to  go  abroad  and  see  it  all.  One  sight  at  last 
was  far  beyond  his  dreams,  and  that  was  Rome. 

A plain  of  housetops  lay  beneath  him  in  the  valley,  the  roofs 
of  houses  new  and  old,  of  houses  high  and  low  — it  looked  as 
if  they  had  been  built  anywhere  and  at  any  time,  and  of  a size 
to  suit  the  need  of  the  moment.  In  a few  places  only  a space 
could  be  seen  between  the  mass  of  housetops,  as  of  streets.  All 
this  world  of  reckless  lines,  crossing  each  other  in  a thousand 
hard  angles,  was  lying  inert  and  quiet  under  the  pale  skies, 
while  the  setting  sun  touched  the  borders  of  the  clouds  with  a 
tinge  of  light.  It  was  dreaming  under  a thin  veil  of  wrhite  mist, 
which  no  busy  pillar  of  smoke  dared  penetrate,  for  no  factory 
chimney  could  be  seen,  and  no  smoke  came  from  a single  one  of 
the  funny  little  chimney  pipes  protruding  from  the  houses.  The 
round,  old,  rust-brown  tiles  were  covered  by  greyish  moss,  grass 
and  small  plants  with  yellow  blossoms  grew  in  the  gutters; 
along  the  border  of  the  terraces  the  aloes  stood  immovably  still 
in  their  tubs,  and  creepers  hung  in  dead  cascades  from  the 
cornices.  Here  and  there  the  upper  part  of  a high  house  rose 
above  its  neighbour,  its  dark,  hollow  windows  staring  at  one 
out  of  a grey  or  reddish-yellow  wall,  or  sleeping  behind  closed 
shutters.  Loggias  stood  out  of  the  mist,  looking  like  parts  of 
an  old  watchtower,  and  small  summer-houses  of  wood  or  cor- 
rugated iron  were  erected  on  the  roofs. 

Above  it  all  masses  of  church  cupolas  were  floating  — the 
huge,  grey  one,  far  on  the  other  side  of  what  Helge  supposed 
to  be  the  river,  was  that  of  St.  Peter. 

Beyond  the  valley,  where  the  roofs  covered  the  silent  city  — 
it  well  deserved  the  epithet  “ eternal  ” tonight  — a low  hill 
stretched  its  longish  back  toward  the  skies,  carrying  on  the 


JENNY 


li 


far-away  ridge  an  avenue  of  pines,  the  foliage  of  which  formed 
one  large  mass  above  the  row  of  slender  trunks.  And  behind 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter  the  eye  was  arrested  by  another  hill  with 
villas,  built  among  pines  and  cypresses.  Probably  Monte 
Mario. 

The  dark  leaves  of  the  holly  formed  a roof  over  his  head, 
and  behind  him  a fountain  made  a curiously  living  sound  as 
the  water  splashed  against  the  stone  border,  before  flowing  into 
the  basin  beneath  it. 

Helge  whispered  to  the  city  of  his  dreams,  whose  streets  his 
feet  had  not  yet  touched,  whose  houses  did  not  harbour  one 
single  soul  he  knew:  “Rome  — Rome  — eternal  Rome.”  He 

was  suddenly  struck  by  his  own  loneliness  and  startled  at  his 
emotion,  though  he  knew  that  there  was  nobody  to  witness  it, 
and,  turning  round,  he  hurried  down  the  Spanish  stairs. 

And  now  when  he  stood  at  the  corner  of  Condotti  and  Corso 
he  experienced  a quaint  and  yet  pleasant  anxiety  at  the  thought 
of  mixing  with  those  hustling  crowds  and  finding  his  way  in  the 
strange  city  — to  wander  through  it  as  far  as  Piazza  San  Pietro. 

As  he  was  crossing  the  street  two  young  girls  passed  him. 
They  looked  like  Norwegians,  he  thought,  with  a slight  thrill 
of  pleasure.  One  of  them  was  very  fair  and  wore  light-col- 
oured furs. 

It  was  a joy  to  him  even  to  read  the  names  of  the  streets 
carved  in  clear,  Latin  type  on  white  marble  slabs  set  in  the 
corners  of  the  houses. 

The  street  he  took  ran  into  an  open  space  near  a bridge,  on 
which  two  rows  of  lanterns  burned  with  a sickly,  greenish  flame 
in  the  pale  light  pouring  down  from  the  restless  sky.  A low 
parapet  of  stone  ran  along  the  waterline,  bordered  by  a row 
of  trees  with  faded  leaves  and  trunks,  dropping  their  bark  in 
big  white  flakes.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  the  street 
lamps  were  burning  among  the  trees,  and  the  houses  stood  out 
black  against  the  sky,  but  on  this  side  the  twilight  still  flickered 


12 


JENNY 


on  the  window-panes.  The  sky  was  almost  clear  now,  and 
hung  transparent  and  greenish  blue  over  the  hill  with  the  pine 
avenue,  with  here  and  there  a few  reddish,  threatening,  slowly 
moving  clouds. 

He  stopped  on  the  bridge  and  looked  down  into  the  Tiber. 
How  dull  the  water  was!  It  flowed  on  rapidly,  reflecting  the 
colours  of  the  evening  skies,  sweeping  twigs  and  gravel  and  bits 
of  wood  on  its  way  between  the  stone  walls.  A small 
staircase  on  the  side  of  the  bridge  led  down  to  the  water’s  edge. 
Helge  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to  walk  down  the  steps  one 
night,  when  one  was  tired  of  everything  — had  any  ever  done 
so?  he  wondered. 

He  asked  a policeman  the  way  to  St.  Peter’s  cathedral  in 
German;  the  man  answered  him  first  in  French  and  then  Italian, 
and  when  Helge  repeatedly  shook  his  head,  he  spoke  French 
again,  pointing  up  the  river.  Helge  turned  in  that  direction. 

A huge,  dark  stone  erection  stood  out  against  the  sky,  a low, 
round  tower  with  a jagged  crest  and  the  jet-black  silhouette  of 
an  angel  on  top.  He  recognized  the  lines  of  the  San  Angelo 
fort,  and  went  close  up  to  it.  It  was  still  light  enough  for  the 
statues  by  the  bridge  to  show  up  yellow  in  the  twilight,  the  red 
skies  were  still  mirrored  in  the  flowing  waters  of  the  Tiber,  but 
the  street  lamps  had  gained  power,  and  threw  out  paths  of  light 
across  the  river.  Beyond  the  San  Angelo  bridge  the  electric 
tramcars  with  illuminated  windows  rolled  over  the  new  iron 
bridge,  throwing  white  sparks  from  the  connecting  wires. 

Helge  took  off  his  hat  to  a man: 

“ San  Pietro,  favorisca?  ” 

The  man  pointed  with  his  finger  and  said  something  Helge 
did  not  understand.  He  turned  into  a dark  and  narrow  street 
which,  with  a sensation  of  joy,  he  almost  thought  he  recognized, 
for  it  was  exactly  like  the  Italian  street  of  his  imagination : shop 
after  shop  full  of  curios.  He  gazed  into  the  poorly  lit  windows. 
Most  of  the  things  were  rubbish  — those  dirty  strips  of  coarse 


JENNY 


13 

white  lace  hanging  on  a string  were  surely  not  Italian  handi- 
work. There  were  bits  of  pottery  exhibited  in  dusty  box-lids 
and  small  bronze  figures  of  a poisonous  green,  old  and  new 
brass  candlesticks  and  brooches  with  heaps  of  stones  that  looked 
far  from  genuine.  Yet  he  was  seized  by  a senseless  wish  to  go 
in  and  buy  something  — to  inquire,  to  bargain,  and  to  purchase. 
Almost  before  he  knew  it,  he  had  entered  a small,  stuffy  shop 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  things.  There  were  church-lamps  hang- 
ing from  the  ceiling,  bits  of  silk  with  gold  flowers  on  red  and 
green  and  white  ground,  and  broken  pieces  of  furniture. 

Behind  the  counter  a youth  with  a dark  complexion  and  a 
bluish,  unshaven  chin  was  reading.  He  talked  and  asked  ques- 
tions while  Helge  pointed  at  various  articles,  “ Quanto  ? ” The 
only  thing  he  understood  was  that  the  prices  were  excessive,  but 
one  ought  not  to  buy  until  one  knew  the  language  well  enough 
to  bargain  with  them. 

Several  pieces  of  china  were  standing  on  a shelf,  rococo  fig- 
ures and  vases  with  sprays  of  roses,  which  looked  quite  modem. 
Helge  seized  one  at  random  and  placed  it  on  the  counter: 
“ Quanto?  ” 

“ Sette,”  said  the  youth,  and  spread  out  seven  fingers. 

“ Quattro,”  said  Helge,  holding  out  four  fingers  in  a new 
brown  glove,  and  felt  quite  pleased  with  himself  at  this  leap 
into  the  foreign  language.  He  did  not  understand  one  word  of 
the  man’s  arguments,  but  each  time  he  finished  talking  Helge 
raised  his  four  fingers  and  repeated  his  quattro,  adding  with  a 
superior  air:  “ Non  antica!  ” 

But  the  shopkeeper  protested,  “ Si,  antica”  “ Quattro,”  said 
Helge  again  — the  man  had  now  only  five  fingers  in  the  air  — 
and  turned  towards  the  door.  The  man  called  him  back,  ac- 
cepting, and  Helge,  feeling  highly  pleased  with  himself,  went 
out  with  his  purchase  wrapped  up  in  pink  tissue  paper. 

He  perceived  the  dark  mass  of  the  church  at  the  bottom  of 
the  street  outlined  against  the  sky,  and  walked  on.  He  hurried 


JENNY 


H 

across  the  first  part  of  the  piazza  with  its  lighted  shop  windows 
and  passing  trams  towards  the  two  semicircular  arcades,  which 
laid  a pair  of  rounded  arms,  as  it  were,  about  one  part  of  the 
place,  drawing  it  into  the  quiet  and  darkness  of  the  massive 
church,  with  its  broad  steps  extending  in  a shell-like  formation 
far  out  on  the  piazza. 

The  dome  of  the  church  and  the  row  of  saints  along  the  roof 
of  the  arcades  stood  out  black  against  the  faint  light  of  the 
sky;  the  trees  and  houses  on  the  hill  at  the  back  seemed  to  be 
heaped  one  on  top  of  the  other  in  an  irregular  fashion.  The 
street  lamps  were  powerless  here,  the  darkness  streamed  forth 
between  the  pillars,  and  spread  over  the  steps  from  the  open 
portico  of  the  church.  He  went  slowly  up  the  steps  close  to 
the  church  and  looked  through  the  iron  doors.  Then  he  went 
back  again  to  the  obelisk  in  the  middle  of  the  piazza  and  stood 
there  gazing  at  the  dark  building.  He  bent  his  head  back,  and 
followed  with  his  eyes  the  slender  needle  of  stone  that  pointed 
straight  into  the  evening  sky,  where  the  last  clouds  had  de- 
scended on  the  roofs  of  that  part  of  the  town  whence  he  had 
come,  and  the  first  radiant  sparks  of  the  stars  pierced  the  gath- 
ering darkness. 

Again  his  ears  caught  the  sound  of  water  emptying  into  a 
stone  cistern,  and  the  soft  ripple  of  the  overflow  from  one  re- 
ceptacle into  another  into  the  basin.  He  approached  one  of  the 
fountains  and  watched  the  thick,  white  jet,  driven  upwards  as 
it  were  in  angry  defiance  and  looking  black  against  the  clear 
atmosphere,  to  break  high  in  the  air  and  sink  back  into  the 
darkness,  where  the  water  gleamed  white  again.  He  kept  star- 
ing at  it  until  a gust  of  wind  took  hold  of  the  jet  and  bent  it 
towards  him,  raining  icy  drops  on  his  face,  but  he  remained 
where  he  was,  listening  and  staring.  Then  he  walked  a few 
steps  — stood  still  — and  walked  again,  but  very  slowly,  listen- 
ing to  an  inner  voice.  It  was  true,  then  — really  true  — that 
he  was  here,  far,  far  away  from  everything  he  had  longed  so 


JENNY  15 

intensely  to  leave.  And  he  walked  still  more  slowly,  furtively, 
like  one  who  has  escaped  from  prison. 

At  the  comer  of  the  street  there  was  a restaurant.  He  made 
for  it,  and  on  his  way  found  a tobacco  shop,  where  he  bought 
some  cigarettes,  picture  cards  and  stamps.  Waiting  for  his 
steak,  he  drank  big  gulps  of  claret,  while  he  wrote  to  his  par- 
ents; to  his  father:  “ I have  been  thinking  of  you  very  often 

today” — it  was  true  enough  — and  to  his  mother:  “ I have 

already  got  a small  present  for  you,  the  first  thing  I bought 
here  in  Rome.”  Poor  mother  — how  was  she?  He  had  often 
been  impatient  with  her  these  last  years.  He  unpacked  the 
thing  and  had  a look  at  it  — it  was  probably  meant  for  a scent- 
bottle.  He  added  a few  words  to  his  mother’s  card  that  he 
managed  the  language  all  right,  and  that  to  bargain  in  the 
shops  was  an  easy  matter. 

The  food  was  good,  but  dear.  Never  mind,  once  he  was  more 
at  home  here  he  would  soon  leam  how  to  live  cheaply.  Satis- 
fied and  exhilarated  by  the  wine,  he  started  to  walk  in  a new 
direction,  past  long,  low,  dilapidated  houses,  through  an  arch- 
way on  to  a bridge.  A man  in  a barrier  hut  stopped  him  and 
made  him  understand  that  he  had  to  pay  a soldo.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge  was  a large,  dark  church  with  a dome. 

He  got  into  a labyrinth  of  dark,  narrow  bits  of  streets  — 
in  the  mysterious  gloom  he  surmised  the  existence  of  old  palaces 
with  projecting  cornices  and  lattice  windows  side  by  side  with 
miserable  hovels,  and  small  church-fronts  in  between  the  rows 
of  houses.  There  were  no  pavements  and  he  stepped  into  re- 
fuse that  lay  rotting  in  the  gutter.  Outside  the  narrow  doors 
of  the  lighted  taverns  and  under  the  few  street  lamps  he  had  a 
vague  glimpse  of  human  forms. 

He  was  half  delighted,  half  afraid  — boyishly  excited,  and 
wondering  at  the  same  time  how  he  was  to  get  out  of  this  maze 
and  find  the  way  to  his  hotel  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  — take  a 
cab,  he  supposed. 


i6 


JENNY 


He  passed  down  another  narrow,  almost  empty  street.  A 
small  strip  of  clear,  blue  sky  was  visible  between  the  high 
houses  with  their  frameless  windows,  looking  like  black  holes 
cut  in  the  wall.  On  the  uneven  stone  bridge  dust  and  straw  and 
bits  of  paper  were  tossed  about  by  a light  gust  of  wind. 

Two  women,  walking  behind  him,  passed  him  close  under  a 
lamp.  He  gave  a start : they  were  the  ones  he  had  noticed  that 
afternoon  in  the  Corso  and  believed  to  be  Norwegian.  He  rec- 
ognized the  light  furs  of  the  taller  one. 

Suddenly  he  felt  an  impulse  to  try  an  adventure  — to  ask 
them  the  way,  so  as  to  hear  if  they  were  Norwegian  — or  Scan- 
dinavian at  any  rate,  for  they  were  certainly  foreigners.  With 
slightly  beating  heart  he  started  to  walk  after  them. 

The  two  young  girls  stopped  outside  a shop,  which  was  closed, 
and  then  walked  on.  Helge  wondered  if  he  should  say 
“ Please  ” or  “ Bitte  ” or  “ Scusi  ” — or  if  he  should  blurt  out 
at  once  “ Undskyld  ” — it  would  be  funny  if  they  were  Nor- 
wegians. 

The  girls  turned  a corner;  Helge  was  close  upon  them,  screw- 
ing up  courage  to  address  them.  The  smaller  one  turned  round 
angrily  and  said  something  in  Italian  in  a low  voice.  He  felt 
disappointed  and  was  going  to  vanish  after  an  apology,  when  the 
tall  one  said  in  Norwegian:  “ You  should  not  speak  to  them, 

Cesca  — it  is  much  better  to  pretend  not  to  notice.” 

“ I cannot  bear  that  cursed  Italian  rabble;  they  never  will 
leave  a woman  alone,”  said  the  other. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  Helge,  and  the  two  girls  stopped, 
turning  round  quickly. 

“ I hope  you  will  excuse  me,”  he  muttered,  colouring,  and, 
angrily  conscious  of  it,  blushed  still  deeper.  “ I only  arrived 
from  Florence  today,  and  have  lost  my  wTay  in  these  winding 
streets.  I thought  you  were  Norwegian,  or  at  any  rate  Scan- 
dinavian, and  I cannot  manage  the  Italian  language.  Would 


JENNY  17 

you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  where  to  find  a car?  My  name 
is  Gram,”  he  added,  raising  his  hat  again. 

“ Where  do  you  live?  ” asked  the  taller  girl. 

“ At  a place  called  the  Albergo  Torino,  close  to  the  station,” 
he  explained. 

“ He  should  take  the  Trastevere  tram  at  San  Carlo  ai  Cat- 
enari,”  said  the  other. 

“ No;  better  take  a No.  1 at  the  new  Corso.” 

“ But  those  cars  don’t  go  to  the  Termini,”  answered  the  little 
one. 

“ Yes,  they  do.  Those  that  have  San  Pietro,  stazione  Ter- 
mini, written  on  them,”  she  explained  to  Helge. 

“ Oh,  that  one ! It  runs  past  Capo  le  Case  and  Ludovisi  and 
an  awful  long  way  about  first  — it  will  take  an  hour  at  least 
to  the  station  with  that  one.” 

“No,  dear;  it  goes  direct  — straight  along  Via  Nazion- 
ale.” 

“It  does  not,”  insisted  the  other;  “it  goes  to  the  Lateran 
first.” 

The  taller  girl  turned  to  Helge:  “The  first  turning  right 

will  take  you  into  a sort  of  market.  From  there  you  go  along 
the  Cancellaria  on  your  left  to  the  new  Corso.  If  I remember 
rightly,  the  tram  stops  at  the  Cancellaria  — somewhere  near  it 
anyway  — you  will  see  the  sign.  But  be  sure  to  take  the  tram 
marked  San  Pietro,  stazione  Termini,  No.  1.” 

Helge  stood  somewhat  crestfallen,  listening  to  the  foreign 
names  which  the  girls  used  with  such  easy  familiarity,  and, 
shaking  his  head,  said:  “ I am  afraid  I shall  never  be  able 

to  find  it  — perhaps  I had  better  walk  till  I find  a cab.” 

“ We  might  go  with  you  to  the  stop,”  said  the  tall  one. 

The  little  one  whispered  peevishly  something  in  Italian,  but 
the  other  answered  her  decisively.  Helge  felt  still  more  con- 
fused at  these  asides,  which  he  did  not  understand. 


i8 


JENNY 


“ Thank  you,  but  please  do  not  trouble.  I am  sure  to  find 
my  way  home  somehow  or  other.” 

“ It  is  no  trouble,”  said  the  tall  one,  starting  to  walk;  “ it  is 
on  our  way.” 

“ It  is  very  kind  of  you;  I suppose  it  is  rather  difficult  to  find 
one’s  way  about  in  Rome,  is  it  not?  ” he  said,  by  way  of  con- 
versation— “ especially  when  it  is  dark.” 

“ Oh  no,  you  will  soon  get  into  it.” 

“ I only  arrived  here  to-day.  I came  from  Florence  this 
morning  by  train.”  The  smaller  one  said  something  in  an  un- 
dertone in  Italian.  The  tall  one  asked:  “ Was  it  very  cold  in 

Florence?  ” 

“ Yes,  bitterly  cold.  It  is  milder  here,  is  it  not?  I wrote 
my  mother  anyway  yesterday  to  send  my  winter  coat.” 

“ Well,  it  is  cold  enough  here  too  sometimes.  Did  you  like 
Florence?  How  long  were  you  there?  ” 

“ A fortnight.  I think  I shall  like  Rome  better  than  Flor- 
ence.” 

The  other  young  girl  smiled  — she  had  been  muttering  to  her- 
self in  Italian  all  the  time  — but  the  tall  one  went  on  in  her 
pleasant,  quiet  voice : 

“ I don’t  believe  there  is  any  town  one  could  love  as  much 
as  Rome.” 

“ Is  your  friend  Italian?  ” asked  Helge. 

“No;  Miss  Jahrman  is  Norwegian.  We  speak  Italian  be- 
cause I want  to  learn,  and  she  is  very  good  at  it.  My  name  is 
Winge,”  she  added.  “ That  is  the  Cancellaria.”  She  pointed 
towards  a big,  dark  palace. 

“ Is  the  courtyard  as  fine  as  it  is  reported  to  be?  ” 

“ Yes;  it  is  very  fine.  I wall  show  you  which  car.”  While 
they  stood  waiting  two  men  came  across  the  street. 

“ Hullo,  you  here!  ” exclaimed  one  of  them. 

“ Good  evening,”  said  the  other.  “ What  luck!  We  can  go 
together.  Have  you  been  to  look  at  the  corals  ? ” 


JENNY 


19 


“ It  was  closed,”  said  Miss  Jahrman  sulkily. 

“ We  have  met  a fellow-countryman,  and  promised  to  show 
him  the  right  tram,”  Miss  Winge  explained,  introducing:  “ Mr. 

Gram  — Mr.  Heggen,  artist,  and  Mr.  Ahlin,  sculptor.” 

“ I don’t  know  if  you  remember  me,  Mr.  Heggen  — my  name 
is  Gram;  we  met  three  years  ago  on  the  Mysusaeter.” 

“ Oh  yes  — certainly.  And  so  you  are  in  Rome?  ” 

Ahlin  and  Miss  Jahrman  had  stood  talking  to  one  another  in 
whispers.  The  girl  came  up  to  her  friend  and  said:  “ I am 

going  home,  Jenny.  I am  not  in  the  mood  for  Frascati  to- 
night.” 

“ But,  my  dear,  you  suggested  it  yourself.” 

“Well,  not  Frascati  anyway  — ugh!  sit  there  and  mope  with 
thirty  old  Danish  ladies  of  every  possible  age  and  sex.” 

“ We  can  go  somewhere  else.  But  there  is  your  tram  coming, 
Mr.  Gram.” 

“ A thousand  thanks  for  your  help.  Shall  I see  you  again 
— at  the  Scandinavian  club,  perhaps?  ” 

The  tram  stopped  in  front  of  them.  Miss  Winge  said:  “ I 

don’t  know  — perhaps  you  would  like  to  come  with  us  now; 
we  were  going  to  have  a glass  of  wine  somewhere,  and  hear 
some  music.” 

“ Thank  you.”  Helge  hesitated,  looking  round  at  the  others 
a little  embarrassed.  “ I should  be  very  pleased,  but  ” — and, 
turning  with  confidence  to  Miss  Winge  of  the  fair  face  and  the 
kind  voice,  he  said,  with  an  awkward  smile,  “ you  all  know  one 
another  — perhaps  you  would  rather  not  have  a stranger  with 
you  ? ” 

“ Indeed  no,”  she  said,  smiling  — “ it  would  be  very  nice  — 
and  there  — your  tram’s  gone  now.  You  know  Heggen  already, 
and  now  you  know  us.  We’ll  see  you  get  home  all  right,  so  if 
you  are  not  tired,  let  us  go.” 

“ Tired,  not  a bit.  I should  love  to  come,”  said  Helge  eag- 
erly. 


20 


JENNY 


The  other  three  began  to  propose  different  cafes.  Helge  knew 
none  of  the  names;  his  father  had  not  mentioned  them.  Miss 
Jahrman  rejected  them  all. 

“ Very  well,  then,  let  us  go  down  to  St.  Agostino;  you  know 
the  one,  Gunnar,  where  they  give  you  that  first-rate  claret,”  and 
Jenny  began  to  walk  on,  accompanied  by  Heggen. 

“ There  is  no  music,”  retorted  Miss  Jahrman. 

“ Oh  yes,  the  man  with  a squint  and  the  other  fellow  are 
there  almost  every  night.  Don’t  let  us  waste  time.” 

Helge  followed  with  Miss  Jahrman  and  the  Swedish  sculptor. 
“ Have  you  been  long  in  Rome,  Mr.  Gram?  ” 

“ No,  I came  this  morning  from  Florence.” 

Miss  Jahrman  laughed.  Helge  felt  rather  snubbed.  He 
ought  perhaps  to  have  said  he  was  tired,  and  gone  home.  On 
their  way  down  through  dark,  narrow  streets  Miss  Jahrman 
talked  all  the  time  to  the  sculptor,  and  scarcely  answered  when 
he  tried  to  speak  to  her.  But  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
he  saw  the  other  couple  vanish  through  a narrow  door  down  the 
street. 

II 

~^T  THAT’S  wrong  with  Cesca  again  tonight?  We 
% /\  / are  getting  too  much  of  her  tempers  lately.  T ake 
▼ Y off  your  coat,  Jenny,  or  you’ll  be  cold  when  you 
go  out.”  Heggen  hung  his  coat  and  hat  on  a peg  and  sat  down 
on  a rush  chair. 

“ She  is  not  well,  poor  girl,  and  that  man  Gram,  you  see, 
followed  us  a while  before  he  dared  to  speak  to  us;  and  any- 
thing of  that  kind  always  puts  her  out  of  temper;  she  has  a 
weak  heart,  you  know.” 

“ Sorry  for  her.  The  cheek  of  the  man.” 

“ Poor  thing,  he  was  wandering  listlessly  about  and  could  not 


JENNY  21 

find  his  way  home.  He  doesn’t  seem  used  to  travelling.  Did 
you  know  him  before?  ” 

“ Haven’t  the  slightest  recollection  of  it.  I may  have  met 
him  somewhere.  Here  they  are.” 

Ahlin  took  Miss  Jahrman’s  coat. 

“By  Jove!”  said  Heggen.  “How  smart  you  are  tonight, 
Cesca.  Pretty  as  paint.” 

She  smiled,  evidently  pleased,  and  smoothed  her  hips;  then, 
taking  Heggen  by  the  shoulders:  “Move  out,  please,  I want 

to  sit  by  Jenny.” 

How  pretty  she  is,  thought  Helge.  Her  dress  was  a brilliant 
green,  the  skirt  so  high-waisted  that  the  rounded  breasts  rose 
as  out  of  a cup.  There  was  a golden  sheen  in  the  folds  of  the 
velvet,  and  the  bodice  was  cut  low  round  the  pale,  full  throat. 
She  was  very  dark;  small,  jet-black  curls  fell  from  under  the 
brown  bell-shaped  hat  about  her  soft,  rosy  cheeks.  The  face 
was  that  of  a little  girl,  with  full,  round  lids  over  deep,  brown 
eyes,  and  charming  dimples  about  the  small,  red  mouth. 

Miss  Winge  too  w:as  good-looking,  but  could  not  com- 
pete with  her  friend.  She  was  as  fair  as  the  other  was  dark; 
her  blonde  hair  brushed  back  from  a high,  white  forehead  had 
tints  of  flaming  gold  in  it;  her  skin  was  a delicate  pink  and 
white.  Even  the  brows  and  lashes  round  her  steel-grey  eyes 
were  a fair,  golden  brown.  The  mouth  was  too  big  for  her 
face,  with  its  short,  straight  nose  and  blue-veined  temples,  and 
the  lips  were  pale,  but  when  she  smiled,  she  showed  even,  pearly 
teeth.  Her  figure  was  slender:  the  long,  slim  neck,  the  arms 
covered  with  a fair,  silken  down,  and  the  long,  thin  hands. 
She  was  tall,  and  so  slim  that  she  was  almost  like  an  overgrown 
boy.  She  seemed  very  young.  She  had  a narrow,  white 
turned-down  collar  round  the  V-shaped  neck  of  her  dress  and 
revers  of  the  same  kind  round  her  short  sleeves.  Her  dress  of 
soft,  pale  grey  silk  was  gathered  round  the  waist  and  on  the 


22 


JENNY 


shoulders  — obviously  to  make  her  look  less  thin.  She  wore 
a row  of  pink  beads  round  her  neck,  which  were  reflected  in 
rosy  spots  on  her  skin. 

Helge  Gram  sat  down  quietly  at  the  end  of  the  table  and 
listened  to  the  others  talking  about  a friend  of  theirs  who  had 
been  ill.  An  old  Italian,  with  a dirty  white  apron  covering  his 
broad  waistcoat,  came  up  to  ask  what  they  required. 

“ Red  or  white,  sweet  or  dry,  what  do  you  like,  Gram?  ” said 
Heggen,  turning  to  him. 

“ Mr.  Gram  must  have  half  a litre  of  my  claret,”  said  Jenny 
Winge.  “It  is  one  of  the  best  things  you  can  have  in  Rome, 
and  that  is  no  small  praise,  you  know.” 

The  sculptor  pushed  his  cigarette-case  over  to  the  ladies. 
Miss  Jahrman  took  one  and  lighted  it. 

“No,  Cesca  — don’t!  ” begged  Miss  Winge. 

“ Yes,”  said  Miss  Jahrman.  “ I shan’t  be  any  better  if  I 
don’t  smoke,  and  I am  cross  tonight.” 

“ Why  are  you  cross?  ” asked  Ahlin. 

“ Because  I did  not  get  those  corals.” 

“ Were  you  going  to  wear  them  tonight?  ” asked  Heggen. 

“ No,  but  I had  made  up  my  mind  to  have  them.” 

“ I see,”  said  Heggen,  laughing,  “ and  tomorrow  you  null  de- 
cide to  have  the  malachite  necklace.” 

“ No,  I won’t,  but  it  is  awfully  annoying.  Jenny  and  I 
rushed  down  on  purpose  because  of  those  wretched  corals.” 

“ But  you  had  the  good  luck  to  meet  us,  otherwise  you  would 
have  been  obliged  to  go  to  Frascati,  to  which  you  seem  to  have 
taken  a sudden  dislike.” 

“ I would  not  have  gone  to  Frascati,  you  may  be  sure  of 
that,  Gunnar,  and  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  me,  be- 
cause now  that  you  have  made  me  come  I want  to  smoke  and 
drink  and  be  out  the  whole  night.” 

“ I was  under  the  impression  that  you  had  suggested  it  your- 


self. 


JENNY  23 

“ I think  the  malachite  necklace  was  very  fine,”  said  Ahlin, 
by  way  of  interrupting  — “ and  very  cheap.” 

“ Yes,  but  in  Florence  malachite  is  much  cheaper  still.  This 
thing  cost  forty-seven  lire.  In  Florence,  where  Jenny  bought 
her  crist alio  rosso,  I could  have  got  one  for  thirty-five.  Jenny 
gave  only  eighteen  for  hers.  But  I will  make  him  give  me  the 
corals  for  ninety  lire.” 

“ I don’t  quite  understand  your  economy,”  said  Heggen. 

“ I don’t  want  to  talk  about  it  any  more,”  said  Miss  Jahrman. 
“ I am  sick  of  all  this  talk  — and  tomorrow  I am  going  to  buy 
the  corals.” 

“ But  isn’t  ninety  lire  an  awful  price  for  corals?  ” Heggen 
risked  the  question. 

“They  are  not  ordinary  corals,  you  know,”  Miss  Jahrman 
deigned  to  answer.  “ They  are  contadina  corals,  a fat  chain 
with  a gold  clasp  and  heavy  drops  — like  that.” 

“ Contadina  — is  that  a special  kind  of  coral  ? ” asked  Helge. 
“ No.  It  is  what  the  contadinas  wear.” 

“ But  I don’t  know  what  a contadina  is,  you  see.” 

“ A peasant  girl.  Have  you  not  seen  those  big,  dark  red, 
polished  corals  they  wear?  Mine  are  exactly  the  colour  of  raw 
beef,  and  the  bead  in  the  middle  is  as  big  as  that  ” — and  she 
formed  a ring  with  her  thumb  and  forefinger  the  size  of  an 

egg- 

“ How  beautiful  they  must  be,”  said  Helge,  pleased  to  get 
hold  of  the  thread  of  conversation.  “ I don’t  know  what  mala- 
chite is,  or  cristallo  rossa,  but  I am  sure  that  corals  like  those 
would  suit  you  better  than  anything.” 

“ Do  you  hear,  Ahlin?  And  you  wanted  me  to  have  the 
malachite  necklace.  Heggen’s  scarf-pin  is  malachite  — take 
it  off,  Gunnar  — and  Jenny’s  beads  are  cristallo  rosso,  not 
rossa  — red  rock  crystals,  you  know.” 

She  handed  him  the  scarf-pin  and  the  necklace.  The  beads 
were  warm  from  contact  with  the  young  girl’s  neck.  He  looked 


JENNY 


24 

at  them  a while;  in  every  bead  there  were  small  flaws,  as  it 
were,  which  absorbed  the  light. 

“ You  ought  really  to  wear  corals,  Miss  Jahrman.  You 
would  look  exactly  like  a Roman  contadina  yourself.” 

“ You  don’t  say  so!  ” She  smiled,  pleased.  “ Do  you  hear, 
you  others?  ” 

“ You  have  an  Italian  name,  too,”  said  Helge  eagerly. 

“ No.  I was  named  after  my  grandmother,  but  the  Italian 
family  I lived  with  last  year  could  not  pronounce  my  ugly 
name,  and  since  then  I have  stuck  to  the  Italian  version  of  it.” 

“ Francesca,”  said  Ahlin,  in  a whisper. 

“I  shall  always  think  of  you  as  Francesca  — signorina 
Francesca.” 

“Why  not  Miss  Jahrman?  Unfortunately  we  cannot  speak 
Italian  together,  since  you  don’t  know  the  language.”  She 
turned  to  the  others.  “Jenny,  Gunnar — I am  going  to  buy 
the  corals  tomorrow.” 

“ Yes;  I think  I heard  you  say  so,”  said  Heggen. 

“ And  I will  not  pay  more  than  ninety.” 

“ You  always  have  to  bargain  here,”  said  Helge,  as  one  who 
knows.  “ I went  into  a shop  this  afternoon  near  St.  Pietro 
and  bought  this  thing  for  my  mother.  They  asked  seven  lire, 
but  I got  it  for  four.  Don’t  you  think  it  was  cheap  ? ” He 
put  the  thing  on  the  table. 

Francesca  looked  at  it  with  contempt.  “ It  costs  two  fifty 
in  the  market.  I took  a pair  of  them  to  each  of  the  maids  at 
home  last  year.” 

“ The  man  said  it  was  old,”  retorted  Helge. 

“ They  always  do,  when  they  see  that  people  don’t  under- 
stand, and  don’t  know  the  language.” 

“You  don’t  think  it  is  pretty?”  said  Helge,  downcast,  and 
wrapped  the  pink  tissue  paper  round  his  treasure.  “ Don't 
you  think  I can  give  it  to  my  mother?  ” 


JENNY  25 

“ I think  it  is  hideous,”  said  Francesca,  “ but,  of  course,  I 
don’t  know  your  mother’s  taste.” 

“ What  on  earth  shall  I do  with  it,  then?  ” sighed  Helge. 

“ Give  it  to  your  mother,”  said  Jenny.  “ She  will  be  pleased 
that  you  have  remembered  her.  Besides,  people  at  home  like 
those  things.  We  who  live  out  here  see  so  much  that  we  be- 
come more  critical.” 

Francesca  reached  her  hand  for  Ahlin’s  cigarette-case,  but 
he  did  not  want  to  let  her  have  it;  they  whispered  together 
eagerly,  then  she  flung  it  away,  calling:  “ Giuseppe!  ” 

Helge  understood  that  she  ordered  the  man  to  bring  her 
some  cigarettes.  Ahlin  got  up  suddenly:  “My  dear  Miss 

Jahrman— -I  meant  only  to  . . . you  know  it  is  not  good  for 
you  to  smoke  so  much.” 

Francesca  rose.  She  had  tears  in  her  eyes. 

“ Never  mind.  I want  to  go  home.” 

“Miss  Jahrman  — Cesca.”  Ahlin  stood  holding  her  cloak 
and  begged  her  quietly  not  to  go.  She  pressed  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes. 

“Yes;  I want  to  go  home  — you  can  see  for  yourself  that 
I am  quite  impossible  tonight.  I want  to  go  home  alone. 
No,  Jenny,  you  must  not  come  with  me.” 

Heggen  rose  too.  Helge  remained  alone  at  the- table. 

“ You  don’t  imagine  that  we  would  let  you  go  alone  this 
time  of  night?  ” said  Heggen. 

“ You  mean  to  forbid  me,  perhaps?  ” 

“ I do  absolutely.” 

“ Don’t,  Gunnar,”  said  Jenny  Winge.  She  sent  the  men 
away  and  they  sat  down  at  the  table  in  silence,  while  Jenny, 
with  her  arms  round  Francesca,  drew  her  aside  and  talked 
to  her  soothingly.  After  a while  they  came  back  to  the  table. 

But  the  company  was  somewhat  out  of  sorts.  Miss  Jahrman 
sat  close  to  Jenny;  she  had  got  her  cigarettes  and  was  smoking 


26 


JENNY 


now,  shaking  her  head  at  Ahlin,  who  insisted  that  his  were 
better.  Jenny,  who  had  ordered  some  fruit,  was  eating  tanger- 
ines, and  now  and  again  she  put  a slice  in  Francesca’s  mouth. 
How  perfectly  lovely  she  looked  as  she  lay  with  her  sad, 
childish  face  on  Jenny’s  shoulder,  letting  herself  be  fed  by 
her  friend.  Ahlin  sat  and  stared  at  her  and  Heggen  played 
absent-mindedly  with  the  match-ends. 

“ Have  you  been  in  town  long,  Mr.  Gram?  ” he  asked. 

“ I have  taken  to  saying  that  I came  from  Florence  this 
morning  by  train.” 

Jenny  gave  a polite  little  laugh,  and  Francesca  smiled 
faintly. 

At  this  moment  a bare-headed,  dark-haired  woman  with  a 
bold,  yellow,  greasy  face  entered  the  room  with  a mandolin. 
She  was  accompanied  by  a small  man  in  the  threadbare  finery 
of  a waiter,  and  carrying  a guitar. 

“ I was  right,  you  see,  Cesca,”  said  Jenny,  speaking  as  to 
a child.  “There  is  Emilia;  now  we  are  going  to  have  some 
music.” 

“ That’s  jolly,”  said  Helge.  “ Do  the  ballad  singers  really 
still  go  about  here  in  Rome  singing  in  the  taverns?  ” 

The  singers  tuned  up  “ The  Merry  Widow.”  The  woman 
had  a high,  clear,  metallic  voice. 

“Oh,  how  horrid,”  cried  Francesca,  awakening;  “we  don’t 
want  that,  we  want  something  Italian  — la  luna  con  palido 
canto,  or  what  do  you  think?  ” 

She  went  up  to  the  singers  and  greeted  them  like  old  friends 
— laughed  and  gesticulated,  seizing  the  guitar,  and  played, 
humming  a few  bars  of  one  or  two  songs. 

The  Italian  woman  sang.  The  melody  floated  sweet  and 
insinuating  to  the  accompaniment  of  twanging  metal  strings, 
and  Helge’s  four  new  friends  joined  in  the  refrain.  It  was 
about  amove  and  bacciare. 

“ It  is  a love  song,  is  it  not?  ” 


JENNY  27 

“ A nice  love  song,”  laughed  Miss  Jahrman.  “ Don’t  ask 
me  to  translate  it,  but  in  Italian  it  sounds  very  pretty.” 

“ This  one  is  not  so  bad,”  said  Jenny.  She  turned  to  Helge 
with  her  sweet  smile:  “What  do  you  think  of  this  place? 

Is  it  not  a good  wine?  ” 

“ Excellent,  and  a characteristic  old  place.” 

But  all  his  interest  was  gone.  Miss  Winge  and  Heggen 
spoke  to  him  now  and  again,  but  as  he  made  no  effort  to  keep 
up  a conversation,  they  began  to  talk  art  together.  The  Sweed- 
ish  sculptor  sat  gazing  at  Miss  Jahrman.  The  strange  melo- 
dies from  the  strings  floated  past  him  — he  felt  that  others 
understood.  The  room  was  typical,  with  a red  stone  floor,  the 
walls  and  the  ceiling,  which  was  arched  and  rested  on  a thick 
pillar  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  being  distempered.  The 
tables  were  bare,  the  chairs  had  green  rush  bottoms,  and  the 
air  was  heavy  with  the  sourish  smell  of  the  wine  barrels  be- 
hind the  counter. 

This  was  artist  life  in  Rome.  It  was  almost  like  looking 
at  a picture  or  reading  a description  in  a book,  but  he  was  not 
in  it  — on  the  contrary,  he  was  hopelessly  out  of  it.  As  long 
as  it  was  a question  only  of  books  and  pictures,  he  could  dream 
that  he  was  a part  of  it,  but  he  was  convinced  that  he  would 
never  get  in  with  these  people. 

Confound  it  — well,  never  mind.  He  was  no  good  at  as- 
sociating with  people  anyway,  least  of  all  with  people  like 
these.  Look  at  Jenny  Winge  now,  how  unconcernedly  she 
holds  the  smeared  glass  of  dark  red  wine.  It  was  a revelation 
to  him.  His  father  had  drawn  his  attention  to  the  glass,  which 
the  girl  in  Barstrand’s  picture  from  Rome  in  the  Copenhagen 
museum  holds  in  her  hand.  Miss  Winge  would  probably  think 
it  a poor  picture.  These  young  girls  had  probably  never  read 
about  Bramante’s  courtyard  in  the  Cancellaria  — “ this  pearl 
of  renaissance  architecture.”  They  might  have  discovered  it 


28 


JENNY 


one  day  by  chance,  when  they  went  out  to  buy  beads  and  finer}’, 
and  had  perhaps  taken  their  friends  to  see  this  new  delight,  of 
which  they  had  not  dreamt  for  years.  They  had  not  read  in 
books  about  every  stone  and  every  place,  until  their  eyes  could  not 
see  the  beauty  in  anything,  unless  it  exactly  corresponded  to 
the  picture  already  in  mind.  They  could  probably  look  at 
some  white  pillars  standing  against  the  dark  blue  sky  and  enjoy 
the  sight  without  any  pedantic  curiosity  as  to  what  temple  they 
were  part  of  and  for  what  ufiknown  god  it  had  been  built. 

He  had  read  and  he  had  dreamed,  and  he  understood  now 
that  nothing  in  reality  was  what  he  had  expected  it  to  be.  In 
the  clear  daylight  everything  seemed  grey  and  hard,  the  dream 
had  enveloped  the  pictures  of  his  fancy  in  a soft  chiaroscuro, 
had  given  them  a harmonious  finish,  and  covered  the  ruins  with 
a delicate  green.  He  would  now  only  go  round  and  make  sure 
that  everything  he  had  read  about  was  really  there,  and  then 
he  would  be  able  to  lecture  on  it  to  the  young  ladies  at  the 
Academy,  and  say  that  he  had  seen  it.  Not  a single  thing 
would  he  have  to  tell  them  that  he  had  discovered  for  himself; 
he  would  learn  nothing  that  he  did  not  already  know.  And 
when  he  met  living  beings  he  conjured  up  in  his  mind  the  dead 
forms  of  poetry  that  he  knew,  to  see  if  one  of  them  were  repre- 
sented, for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  living,  he  who  had  never 
lived.  Heggen  with  the  full,  red  mouth  would  hardly  — he 
supposed  — dream  of  romantic  adventure,  like  those  one  reads 
of  in  the  popular  novelettes,  if  he  fell  in  with  a girl  one  evening 
in  the  streets  of  Rome. 

He  began  to  feel  conscious  of  having  drunk  wine. 

“ You  will  have  a headache  tomorrow  if  you  go  home  now,” 
said  Miss  Winge  to  him,  when  they  stood  outside  in  the  street. 
The  other  three  walked  ahead;  he  followed  with  her. 

“ I am  sure  you  think  me  an  awful  bore  to  take  out  of  an 
evening.” 


JENNY  29 

“ Not  at  all,  but  you  do  not  know  us  well  enough  yet,  and 
we  don’t  know  you.” 

“ I am  slow  at  making  acquaintances  — in  fact,  I never 
really  get  to  know  people.  I ought  not  to  have  come  tonight, 
when  you  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me.  Perhaps  one  needs 
training  to  enjoy  oneself  too,”  he  said,  with  a short  laugh. 

“ Of  course  one  does.”  He  could  hear  from  her  voice  that 
she  was  smiling. 

“ I was  twenty- five  when  I started  and,  you  can  take  it  from 
me,  I had  no  easy  time  at  first.” 

“You?  I thought  that  you  artists  always.  . . . For  that 
matter,  I did  not  think  you  were  twenty-five  or  near  it.” 

“ I am,  thank  goodness,  and  considerably  more.” 

“ Do  you  thank  Heaven  for  that?  And  I,  a man,  for  every 
year  that  drops  from  me  as  it  were  into  eternity,  without  having 
brought  me  anything  but  the  humiliation  of  finding  that  no- 
body has  any  use  for  me  — I ” He  stopped  suddenly, 

terrified.  He  heard  that  his  voice  trembled,  and  he  concluded 
that  the  wine  had  gone  to  his  head,  since  he  could  speak  like 
that  to  a woman  he  did  not  even  know.  But  in  spite  of  his 
shyness  he  went  on:  “It  seems  quite  hopeless.  My  father 
has  told  me  about  the  young  men  of  his  time,  about  their  eager 
discussions  and  their  great  illusions.  I have  never  had  a single 
illusion  to  talk  about  all  these  years,  that  now  are  gone,  lost, 
never  to  return.” 

“ You  have  no  right  to  say  that,  Mr.  Gram.  Not  one  year 
of  one’s  life  is  wasted,  as  long  as  you  have  not  reached  a point 
where  suicide  is  the  only  way  out.  I don’t  believe  that  the 
old  generation,  those  from  the  time  of  the  great  illusions,  were 
better  off  than  we.  The  dreams  of  their  youth  stripped  life 
bare  for  them.  We  young  people,  most  of  the  ones  I know, 
have  started  life  without  illusions.  We  were  thrown  into  the 
struggle  for  existence  almost  before  we  were  grown  up,  and 
from  the  first  we  have  looked  at  life  with  open  eyes,  expecting 


JENNY 


30 

the  worst.  And  then  one  day  we  understood  that  we  could 
manage  to  get  something  good  out  of  it  ourselves.  Something 
happens,  perhaps,  that  makes  you  think:  if  you  can  stand  this, 
you  can  stand  anything.  Once  you  have  got  self-reliance  in 
that  way,  there  are  no  illusions  that  any  one  or  anything  can 
rob  you  of.” 

“ But  circumstances  and  opportunities  may  be  such  that 
one’s  self-reliance  is  not  much  use  when  they  are  stronger  than 
oneself.” 

“True,”  she  said.  “When  a ship  sets  sail,  circumstances 
may  cause  it  to  be  wrecked  — a collision  or  a mistake  in  the 
construction  of  a wheel  — but  it  does  not  start  with  that  pre- 
sumption. Besides,  one  must  try  and  conquer  circumstances; 
there  is  nearly  always  a way  out  of  them.” 

“ You  are  very  optimistic,  Miss  Winge.” 

“ I am,”  she  said,  and  after  a while:  “ I have  become  an 

optimist  since  I have  seen  how  much  people  really  can  stand 
without  losing  courage  to  struggle  on,  and  without  being  de- 
graded.” 

“ That  is  exactly  what  I think  they  are  — reduced  in  value, 
anyway.” 

“ Not  all.  And  even  to  find  one  who  does  not  allow  life 
to  abase  or  reduce  him  is  enough  to  make  you  optimistic.  We 
are  going  in  here.” 

“ This  looks  more  like  a Montmartre  café,  don’t  you  think?  ” 
said  Helge,  looking  around. 

Along  the  walls  of  the  small  room  were  plush-covered  forms; 
small  iron  tables  with  marble  tops  stood  in  front  of  them,  and 
the  steam  rose  from  two  nickel  boilers  on  the  counter. 

“ These  places  are  the  same  everywhere.  Do  you  know 
Paris?  ” 

“ No,  but  I thought.  . . .”  He  felt  suddenly  irritated  with 
this  young  girl  artist  who  went  about  the  world  as  she  pleased 


JENNY 


3i 

— and  God  knows  where  she  got  the  money  from.  It  seemed 
to  her  quite  as  natural  for  him  to  have  been  in  Paris  as  in  a 
restaurant  in  Christiania.  It  was  easy  for  people  like  her  to 
speak  of  self-reliance.  An  unhappy  love  affair  in  Paris,  which 
she  forgot  in  Rome,  was  probably  the  greatest  of  her  trials,  and 
made  her  feel  so  confident  and  brave  and  able  to  solve  the  ques- 
tions of  life. 

Her  shape  was  almost  scraggy,  but  the  face  was  healthy  and 
the  colouring  beautiful. 

He  wished  he  could  speak  to  Miss  Jahrman,  who  was  wide 
awake  now,  but  she  was  engaged  by  Ahlin  and  Heggen.  Miss 
Winge  was  eating  a poached  egg  and  bread  and  drinking  hot 
milk. 

“ The  customers  of  this  place  look  rather  mysterious,”  he 
said,  turning  to  her.  “Perfect  criminal  types,  it  seems  to 
me.” 

. “ Possibly  — we  have  a little  of  everything  here,  but  you 

must  remember  that  Rome  is  a modem  metropolis  and  that 
many  people  have  night  work.  This  is  one  of  the  few  places 
open  this  time  of  night.  But  aren’t  you  hungry?  I am  going 
to  have  some  black  coffee.” 

“Do  you  always  stay  out  so  late?”  Helge  looked  at  his 
watch;  it  was  four  o’clock. 

“ Oh  no,”  she  laughed.  “ Only  now  and  then.  We  watch 
the  sun  rise  and  then  go  and  have  breakfast.  Miss  Jahrman 
does  not  want  to  go  home  tonight.” 

Helge  scarcely  knew  why  he  stayed  on.  They  had  some  green 
liqueur  and  he  felt  drowsy  after  it,  but  the  others  laughed  and 
chatted,  mentioning  people  and  places  unfamiliar  to  him. 

“ Don’t  talk  to  me  about  Douglas  — with  his  preachings  — 
I have  done  with  him.  One  day  last  June,  when  he  and  the 
Finn  — you  remember  him,  Lindberg?  — and  I were  alone  in 
the  life  class,  the  Firm  and  I went  out  to  have  some  coffee. 


JENNY 


32 

When  we  came  back  Douglas  was  sitting  with  the  girl  on  his 
knee.  We  pretended  not  to  see,  but  he  never  asked  me  to  tea 
after  that.” 

“ Dear  me,”  said  Jenny.  “Was  there  any  harm  in  that?  ” 

“ In  spring-time  and  in  Paris,”  said  Heggen,  with  a smile. 
“ Norman  Douglas,  I tell  you,  Cesca,  was  a splendid  chap  — 
you  cannot  deny  that  — and  clever  too.  He  showed  me  some 
beautiful  things  from  the  fortifications.” 

“ Yes,  and  do  you  remember  that  one  from  Pére  Lachaise, 
with  the  purple  rosaries  to  the  left?  ” said  Jenny. 

“Rather!  It  was  a gem;  and  the  one  with  the  little  girl 
at  the  piano?  ” 

“ Yes,  but  think  of  the  dreadful  model,”  said  Miss  Jahrman 
— “ that  fat,  middle-aged,  fair  one,  you  know.  And  he  ahvays 
pretended  to  be  so  virtuous.” 

“ He  was,”  said  Heggen. 

“ Pugh!  And  I was  on  the  verge  of  falling  in  love  with  him 
just  because  of  that.” 

“ Oh ! That  of  course  puts  it  in  another  light.” 

“ He  proposed  to  me  lots  of  times,”  said  Francesca  pensively, 
and  I had  decided  to  say  yes,  but  fortunately  I had  not  done 
it  yet.” 

“ If  you  had,”  said  Heggen,  “ you  would  never  have  seen 
him  with  that  model  on  his  knee.” 

The  expression  on  Francesca’s  face  changed  completely;  for 
a second  a shadow  of  melancholy  passed  over  her  soft  features. 

“Nonsense!  You  are  all  alike.  I don’t  believe  one  of  you. 
Per  Bacco!  ” 

“You  must  not  think  that,  Francesca,”  said  Ahlin,  lifting 
his  head  for  a moment  from  his  hand. 

She  smiled  again.  “ Give  me  some  more  liqueur.” 

Toward  dawn  Helge  walked  beside  Jenny  Winge  through 
dark,  deserted  streets.  The  three  in  front  of  them  stopped; 


JENNY  33 

two  half-grown  boys  were  sitting  on  the  stone  steps  of  a house. 
Francesca  and  Jenny  talked  to  them  and  gave  them  money. 

“ Beggars?  ” asked  Helge. 

“ I don’t  know  — the  big  one  said  he  was  a paper-boy.” 

“ I suppose  the  beggars  in  this  country  are  merely  hum- 
bugs? ” 

“ Most  of  them,  but  many  have  to  sleep  in  the  street  even  in 
winter.  And  many  are  cripples.” 

“ I noticed  that  in  Florence.  Don’t  you  think  it  is  a shame 
that  people  with  nasty  wounds  or  terribly  deformed  should  be 
allowed  to  go  about  begging?  The  authorities  ought  to  take 
care  of  those  unfortunate  people.” 

“ I don’t  know.  It  is  the  way  out  here.  Foreigners  can 
hardly  judge.  I suppose  they  prefer  to  beg;  they  earn  more 
that  way.” 

“ On  the  Piazza  Michelangelo  there  was  a beggar  without 
arms;  his  hands  came  out  straight  from  the  shoulders.  A 
German  doctor  I was  living  with  said  the  man  owned  a villa 
at  Fiesole.” 

“ All  the  better  for  him ! ” 

“ With  us  the  cripples  are  taught  to  work  so  that  they  can 
earn  their  living  in  a respectable  way.” 

“ Hardly  enough  anyhow  to  buy  a villa,”  said  Jenny,  laugh- 
ing. 

“ Can  you  imagine  anything  more  demoralizing  than  to  make 
one’s  living  by  exposing  one’s  deformity?  ” 

“ It  is  always  demoralizing  to  know  that  one  is  a cripple  in 
one  way  or  another.” 

“ But  to  live  by  invoking  people’s  compassion.” 

“ A cripple  knows  that  he  will  be  pitied  in  any  case,  and  has 
to  accept  help  from  men  — or  God.” 

Jenny  mounted  some  steps  and  lifted  'the  corner  of  a curtain 
that  looked  like  a thin  mattress.  They  entered  a small  church. 


JENNY 


34 

Candles  were  burning  on  the  altar.  The  light  was  reflected 
manifold  on  the  halo  of  the  tabernacle,  fluttered  on  candle- 
sticks and  brass  ornaments  and  made  the  paper  roses  in  the 
altar  vases  look  red  and  yellow.  A priest  stood  with  his  back 
turned  to  them,  reading  silently  from  a book;  a pair  of  acolytes 
moved  to  and  fro,  bowed,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  various 
other  movements  which  seemed  meaningless  to  Helge. 

The  little  church  was  dark;  in  the  two  side  chapels  tiny 
nightlight  flames  flickered,  hanging  from  brass  chains  in  front 
of  images  blacker  than  the  darkness  itself. 

Jenny  Winge  knelt  on  a rush  stood.  Her  folded  hands 
rested  on  the  prie-Dieu,  and  her  head  was  raised,  showing  her 
profile  clearly  outlined  against  the  soft  candlelight,  which 
trembled  in  the  fair  waves  of  her  hair  and  stole  down  the 
delicate  bend  of  her  bare  neck. 

Heggen  and  Ahlin  took  two  chairs  quietly  from  the  pile 
against  one  of  the  pillars. 

This  quiet  service  before  dawn  was  quaint  and  impressive; 
Gram  followed  attentively  every  movement  of  the  priest.  The 
acolytes  hung  a white  garment,  with  a golden  cross  on  it,  over 
his  shoulders.  He  took  the  Host,  turned  round  and  held  it  up 
to  the  light.  The  boys  swung  the  incense,  and  the  sharp,  sweet 
smell  of  it  floated  to  where  Helge  stood,  but  he  waited  in  vain 
for  music  or  singing. 

Miss  Winge  apparently  made  some  pretence  of  being  a Cath- 
olic, since  she  was  kneeling  like  that.  Heggen  sat  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him  towards  the  altar.  He  had  laid  one 
arm  about  the  shoulders  of  Francesca,  who  had  fallen  asleep 
leaning  against  him.  Ahlin  sat  behind  a pillar,  probably 
asleep  too  — he  could  not  see  him. 

It  was  extraordinary  to  sit  here  with  utter  strangers;  he  felt 
lonely,  but  no  longer  depressed.  The  happy  feeling  of  free- 
dom from  the  previous  night  returned.  He  looked  at  the  others, 


JENNY 


35 

at  the  two  young  girls,  Jenny  and  Francesca.  He  knew  their 
names  now,  but  little  more.  And  none  of  them  knew  what  it 
meant  to  him  to  sit  there,  what  he  had  left  behind  by  coming, 
the  painful  struggles,  the  conquering  of  obstacles  and  the  break- 
ing of  bonds  that  had  held  him.  He  felt  strangely  happy,  al- 
most proud  of  it,  and  he  looked  at  the  two  women  with  a mild 
pity.  Such  a little  thing  as  Cesca  — and  Jenny  — young  and 
high-spirited,  with  ready,  confident  opinions  behind  their  white, 
small  foreheads.  Two  young  girls  treading  an  even  path  of 
life,  with  here  and  there  a small  stone  perhaps  to  move  away, 
but  who  knew  nothing  about  a road  like  his.  What  would  they 
do,  poor  girls,  if  they  had  to  try  it?  He  started  -when  Heggen 
touched  his  shoulder,  and  blushed,  for  he  had  been  dozing. 

“ You  have  had  a nap,  too,  I see,”  said  Heggen. 

Out  in  the  street  the  high,  quiet  houses  slept  with  closed 
shutters.  A tram  drove  up  in  a side  street,  a cab  rattled  over 
the  bridge,  and  one  or  two  cold  and  sleepy  stragglers  walked 
on  the  pavement. 

They  turned  into  a street  from  where  they  could  see  the 
obelisk  in  front  of  Trinita-dei-Monti  — it  stood  white  against 
the  dark  hollies  of  Pincio.  No  living  being  was  to  be  seen  and 
no  sound  heard  but  their  own  steps  on  the  iron  bridge  and  the 
ripple  of  a fountain  in  a yard.  Far  away  the  murmur  of  the 
waters  on  Monte  Pinco  came  through  the  stillness.  Helge 
recognized  it,  and  as  he  walked  towards  it,  a growing  feeling 
of  joy  filled  him,  as  if  his  pleasure  from  the  previous  evening 
were  waiting  for  him  up  there  by  the  fountain  under  the  hollies. 

He  turned  to  Jenny  Winge,  not  realizing  that  his  eyes  and 
his  voice  betrayed  his  feeling. 

“ I stood  here  last  night  and  saw  the  sun  set;  it  seemed  so 
strange  to  be  here.  I have  been  working  for  years  to  get  here. 
I had  to  come  because  of  my  studies.  I wanted  to  be  an 
archaeologist,  but  I have  been  obliged  to  teach  from  the  time  I 
got  my  degree.  I have  been  waiting  for  the  day  when  I could 


JENNY 


36 

come  out  here  — sort  of  prepared  myself  for  it.  Yet,  when  I 
stood  here  yesterday  so  suddenly,  I was  almost  taken  unawares.” 
“ I quite  understand,”  said  Jenny. 

“ The  moment  I stepped  out  of  the  train  yesterday  and  saw 
the  ruins  of  the  Thermes  opposite,  surrounded  by  modern  build- 
ings with  cafés  and  cinemas,  with  the  sun  shining  on  the  mighty, 
yellow  ruins,  I loved  it.  The  trams  in  the  piazza,  the  planta- 
tions, the  gorgeous  fountains  with  such  quantities  of  water.  I 
thought  the  old  walls  looked  so  pretty  in  the  midst  of  the  mod- 
ern quarters  with  the  busy  traffic.” 

She  nodded  pleasantly.  “ Yes,”  she  said;  “ I love  it  too.” 
“ Then  I went  down  to  the  town;  it  was  delightful.  Modern 
buildings  among  the  old  ones,  and  fountains  flowing  and  plash- 
ing everywhere.  I walked  right  out  to  San  Pietro;  it  was  dark 
when  I got  there,  but  I stood  a while  and  looked  at  the  water. 
Do  they  play  all  night  in  this  city?  ” 

“ Yes,  all  night.  You  see  and  hear  fountains  almost  every- 
where. The  streets  are  very  quiet  at  night.  Where  we  live, 
Miss  Jahrman  and  I,  there  is  one  in  the  courtyard,  and  when 
the  weather  is  mild  we  sit  on  our  balcony  late  at  night  and  listen 
to  it.” 

She  had  sat  down  on  the  stone  parapet.  Helge  stood  in  the 
same  spot  as  the  evening  before  and  gazed  again  at  the  town, 
with  its  background  of  hills  under  a sky  as  clear  as  the  one 
over  the  mountain-tops  at  home.  He  filled  his  lungs  with  the 
pure,  cold  air. 

“ Nowhere  in  the  world,  are  there  such  mornings  as  in  Rome,” 
said  Jenny.  “ I mean  when  the  whole  town  is  sunk  in  a sleep 
that  grows  lighter  and  lighter,  and  then  suddenly  awakes  rested 
and  fit.  Heggen  says  it  is  because  of  the  shutters;  no  window- 
panes  to  catch  the  morning  light  and  throw  it  on  to  your  face.” 
They  sat  with  their  backs  to  the  breaking  dawn  and  the  golden 
sky,  where  the  pines  in  the  Medici  garden  and  the  small  church 
towers,  with  pavilions  on  top,  appeared  in  hard  and  sharp 


JENNY 


37 

outlines.  The  sun  would  not  rise  yet  for  some  time,  but  the 
grey  mass  of  houses  began  slowly  to  radiate  colour.  It  looked 
as  if  the  light  came  from  within  through  transparent  walls; 
some  houses  seemed  red,  others  turned  yellow  or  white. 
The  villas  in  Monte  Mario  rose  distinctly  from  a background 
of  brown  grassbanks  and  black  cypresses. 

All  at  once  there  was  a sparkling  as  of  a star  somewhere  on 
the  hills  behind  the  town  — a window-pane  had  caught  the 
first  sunray  after  all  — and  the  foliage  turned  a golden  olive. 
A small  bell  began  to  peal  down  in  the  city. 

Miss  Jahrman  came  close  to  her  friend  and  leaned  sleepily 
against  her : 

“ II  levar  del  sole.” 

Helge  looked  up  against  the  limpid  blue  sky;  a sunray 
brushed  the  top  of  the  spray  and  made  the  waterdrops  scintillate 
in  gold  and  azure. 

“ Bless  you  all,  I am  desperately  sleepy,”  said  Francesca, 
yawning  carelessly.  “Ugh!  it  is  freezing!  I cannot  under- 
stand how  you  can  sit  on  that  cold  stone,  Jenny.  I want  to  go 
to  bed  at  once  — subito!  ” 

“ I am  sleepy  too.”  Heggen  yawned.  “ We  must  go  home, 
but  I am  going  to  have  a cup  of  hot  milk  at  my  dairy  first. 
Are  you  coming?  ” 

They  went  down  the  Spanish  stairs.  Helge  looked  at  all 
the  little  green  leaves  that  peeped  out  between  the  stone  steps. 

“ Fancy  anything  growing  where  so  many  people  walk  up 
and  down.” 

“ Everywhere,  where  there  is  some  earth  between  the  stones, 
something  grows.  You  should  have  seen  the  roof  below  our 
house  last  spring.  There  is  even  a little  fig-tree  grow- 
ing between  the  tiles,  and  Cesca  is  very  concerned  about  it 
lest  it  should  not  stand  the  winter,  and  wonders  where  it  will 
get  nourishment  when  it  grows  bigger.  She  has  made  a sketch 
of  it.” 


JENNY 


38 

“ Your  friend  is  a painter,  too,  I understand?  ” 

“ Yes  — she  is  very  talented.” 

“ I remember  seeing  a picture  of  yours  at  the  autumn  ex- 
hibition at  home,”  said  Helge.  “ Roses  in  a copper  bowl.” 

“ I painted  it  here  last  spring,  but  I am  not  altogether  pleased 
with  it  now.  I was  in  Paris  for  two  months  in  the  summer, 
and  I think  I leamt  a lot  in  that  time.  But  I sold  it  for  three 
hundred  kroner  — the  price  I had  marked  it  for.  There  are 
some  things  in  it  that  are  good.” 

“ You  are  a modem  painter  — I suppose  you  all  are?  ” 
Jenny  smiled  slightly,  but  did  not  answer. 

The  others  waited  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  Jenny  shook 
hands  with  the  men  and  said  good  morning. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  that?”  said  Heggen.  “You  are 
not  really  going  off  to  work  now?  ” 

“ Yes;  that  is  what  I mean.” 

“ You  are  marvellous!  ” 

“ Oh,  don’t,  Jenny,  come  home!  ” Francesca  shivered. 

“ Why  shouldn’t  I work?  I am  not  a bit  tired.  Mr.  Gram, 
hadn’t  you  better  take  a cab  home  from  here?  ” 

“ I suppose  so.  Is  the  post  office  open  now?  I know  it  is 
not  far  from  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.” 

“ I am  going  past  it  — you  can  come  with  me.”  She  nodded 
a last  time  to  the  others,  who  began  to  walk  homeward.  Fran- 
cesca hung  limp  on  Ahlin’s  arm,  overcome  with  sleep. 

Ill 

WELL,  did  you  get  a letter?  ” said  Jenny  Winge 
when  he  returned  to  the  entrance  hall  of  the  post 
office,  where  she  had  been  waiting  for  him. 
“ Now  I will  show  you  which  tram  to  take.” 

“ Thank  you,  it  is  very  kind  of  you.” 

The  piazza  lay  white  in  the  sunshine;  the  morning  air  was 


JENNY  39 

crisp  and  clear.  Carts  and  people  from  the  side  streets  were 
hurrying  past. 

“ You  know,  Miss  Winge,  I don’t  think  I will  go  home.  I 
am  as  wide  awake  as  I can  be,  and  I should  like  to  go  for  a 
walk.  Would  you  think  me  intruding  if  I asked  to  be  allowed 
to  accompany  you  a little  bit  of  the  way?  ” 

“ Dear  me,  no.  But  will  you  be  able  to  find  the  way  to  your 
hotel?  ” 

“ Oh,  I think  I can  manage  it  in  broad  daylight.” 

“You  will  find  cabs  now  everywhere.” 

They  came  out  into  the  Corso,  and  she  told  him  the  names  of 
the  palaces.  She  was  always  a step  or  two  ahead  of  him,  for 
she  moved  with  ease  between  the  many  people  who  had  already 
come  out  on  the  pavements. 

“ Do  you  like  vermouth  ? ” she  asked.  “ I am  going  in  here 
to  have  one.” 

She  drank  it  all  in  one  gulp,  standing  at  the  marble  counter 
of  the  bar.  He  did  not  like  the  bitter-sweet  drink,  which  was 
new  to  him,  but  he  thought  it  fun  to  look  in  at  a bar  on  their 
way. 

Jenny  turned  into  narrow  streets  where  the  air  was  raw  and 
damp,  the  sun  reaching  only  the  top  part  of  the  houses. 
Helge  noticed  everything  with  great  interest:  the  blue  carts 
behind  mules  with  brass-studded  harness  and  red  tassels,  the 
bareheaded  women  and  dark-hued  children,  the  small,  cheap 
shops  and  the  display  of  vegetables  in  the  porches.  In  one 
place  a man  was  making  doughnuts  on  a stove.  Jenny  bought 
some  and  offered  him,  but  he  refused  politely.  What  a queer 
girl,  he  thought.  She  ate  and  seemed  to  enjoy  them,  while  he 
felt  sick  at  the  mere  thought  of  those  greasy  balls  between  his 
teeth  on  top  of  the  various  drinks  in  the  night,  and  the  taste 
of  vermouth  still  in  his  mouth.  Besides,  the  old  man  was  very 
dirty. 

Side  by  side  with  poor,  decrepit  houses,  where  greyish  wash 


JENNY 


40 

hung  out  to  dry  between  the  broken  ribs  of  the  Venetian 
blinds,  stood  massive  stone  palaces  with  lattice  windows  and 
protruding  cornices.  Once  Jenny  had  to  take  him  by  the  arm 
— a scarlet  automobile  came  hooting  out  of  a gate  in  baroque 
style,  turned  with  difficulty,  and  came  speeding  up  the  narrow 
street,  where  the  gutters  were  full  of  cabbage  leaves  and  other 
refuse. 

He  enjoyed  it  all  — it  was  so  strange  and  southern.  Year 
after  year  his  fantastic  dreams  had  been  destroyed  by  everyday 
petty  reality,  till  at  last  he  had  tried  to  sneer  at  himself  and 
correct  his  fancies  in  self-defence.  And  so  now  he  tried  to 
convince  himself  that  in  these  romantic  quarters  lived  the  same 
kind  of  people  as  in  every  other  big  city  — shopgirls  and  fac- 
tory workers,  typographers  and  telegraph  operators,  people  who 
worked  in  offices  and  at  machines,  the  same  as  in  every  part 
of  the  world.  But  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  think  that  the  houses 
and  the  streets,  which  were  the  image  of  his  dreams,  were 
obviously  real  as  well. 

After  walking  through  small,  damp  and  smelly  streets  they 
came  into  an  open  space  in  the  sunlight.  The  ground  was 
raked  up  at  random;  heaps  of  offal  and  rubbish  lay  between 
mounds  of  gravel;  dilapidated  old  houses,  some  of  them  partly 
pulled  down,  with  rooms  showing,  stood  between  classical  ruins. 

Passing  some  detached  houses,  which  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  forgotten  in  the  general  destruction,  they  reached  the 
piazza  by  the  Vesta  temple.  Behind  the  big,  new  steam-mill 
and  the  lovely  little  church  with  the  pillared  portico  and  the 
slender  tower,  the  Aventino  rose  distinct  against  the  sunny 
sky,  with  the  monasteries  on  the  hill,  and  dust-grey,  nameless 
ruins  among  the  gardens  on  the  slope. 

The  thing  that  always  gave  him  a shock  — in  Germany  and 
in  Florence  — was  that  the  ruins  he  had  read  about  and  im- 
agined standing  in  a romantic  frame  of  green  leaves  with  flowers 
in  the  crevices,  as  you  see  them  in  old  etchings  or  on  tire 


JENNY 


41 

scenery  in  a theatre,  were  in  reality  dirty  and  shabby,  with  bits 
of  paper,  dented,  empty  tins  and  rubbish  lying  about;  and  the 
vegetation  of  the  south  was  represented  by  greyish  black  ever- 
green, naked,  prickly  shrubs,  and  yellow,  faded  rushes. 

On  this  sunny  morning  he  understood  suddenly  that  even 
such  a sight  holds  beauty  for  those  who  can  see. 

Jenny  Winge  took  the  road  between  garden  walls  at  the  back 
of  the  church.  The  walls  were  covered  with  ivy,  and  pines 
rose  behind  them.  She  stopped  to  light  a cigarette. 

“ I am  a pronounced  smoker,  you  see,”  she  said,  “ but  I have 
to  refrain  when  I am  with  Cesca,  for  her  heart  does  not  stand 
it;  out  here  I smoke  like  a steam-engine.  Here  we  are.” 

A small,  yellow  house  stood  inside  a fence;  in  the  garden 
were  tables  and  forms  under  big,  bare  elms,  and  a summer- 
house made  of  rush  stalks.  Jenny  greeted  the  old  woman  who 
came  out  on  the  doorstep. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Gram,  what  do  you  say  to  breakfast?  ” 

“Not  a bad  idea.  A cup  of  strong  coffee  and  a roll  and 
butter.” 

“Coffee!  and  butter!  Listen  to  him!  No,  eggs  and  bread 
and  wine,  lettuce  and  perhaps  some  cheese.  Yes,  she  says  she 
has  cheese.  How  many  eggs  do  you  want?  ” 

While  the  woman  laid  the  table  Miss  Winge  carried  her 
easel  and  painting  accessories  into  the  garden,  and  changed  her 
long,  blue  evening  wrap  for  a short  coat,  which  was  soiled  with 
paint. 

“ May  I have  a look  at  your  picture?  ” asked  Helge. 

“ Yes  ■ — I am  going  to  tone  down  that  green  — - it  is  rather 
hard.  There  is  really  no  light  in  it  yet,  but  the  background  is 
good,  I think.” 

Helge  looked  at  the  painting;  the  trees  looked  like  big  grease 
splashes.  He  could  see  nothing  in  it. 

“ Here’s  breakfast  coming.  We’ll  throw  the  eggs  at  her  if 
they  are  hard.  Hurrah,  they  aren’t!  ” 


42 


JENNY 


Helge  was  not  hungry.  The  sour  white  wine  gave  him 
heartburn,  and  he  could  scarcely  swallow  the  dry,  unsalted 
bread,  but  Jenny  bit  off  great  chunks  with  her  white  teeth,  put 
small  pieces  of  Parmesan  in  her  mouth,  and  drank  wine.  The 
three  eggs  were  already  done  with. 

“How  can  you  eat  that  nasty  bread  without  butter?  ” said 
Helge. 

“ I like  it.  I have  not  tasted  butter  since  I left  Christiania. 
Cesca  and  I buy  it  only  when  we  are  having  a party.  We  have 
to  live  very  economically,  you  see.” 

He  laughed,  saying : “ What  do  you  call  economy  — beads 

and  corals?  ” 

“No;  it  is  luxury,  but  I think  it  is  very  essential  — a little 
of  it.  We  live  cheaply  and  we  eat  cheaply,  tea  and  dry  bread 
and  radishes  twice  or  three  times  a week  for  supper  — and  we 
buy  silk  scarves.” 

She  had  finished  eating,  lit  a cigarette,  and  sat  looking  in 
front  of  her,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand: 

“ To  starve,  you  see,  Mr.  Gram  — of  course  I have  not  tried 
it  yet,  but  I may  have  to.  Heggen  has,  and  he  thinks  as  I 
do  — to  starve  or  to  have  too  little  of  the  necessary  is  better 
than  never  to  have  any  of  the  superfluous.  The  superfluous  is 
the  very  thing  we  work  and  long  for.  At  home,  with  my 
mother,  we  always  had  the  strictly  necessary,  but  everything 
beyond  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  had  to  be  — the  chil- 
dren had  to  be  fed  before  anything  else.” 

“ I cannot  think  of  you  as  ever  having  been  troubled  about 
money.” 

“ Why  not?  ” 

“ Because  you  are  so  courageous  and  independent,  and  you 
have  such  decided  opinions  about  everything.  When  you  grow 
up  in  circumstances  where  it  is  a constant  struggle  to  make  ends 
meet,  and  you  are  always  reminded  of  it,  you  sort  of  dare  not 
form  any  opinions  — in  a general  way  — it  is  so  tantalizing  to 


JENNY  43 

know  that  the  coins  decide  what  you  can  afford  to  wish  or  to 
want.” 

Jenny  nodded  pensively.  “ Yes,  but  one  must  not  feel  like 
that  when  one  has  health  and  youth  and  knowledge.” 

“ Well,  take  my  case,  for  instance.  I have  always  believed 
that  I have  some  aptitude  for  scientific  work,  and  it  is  the  only 
thing  I would  like  to  do.  I have  written  a few  books  — popu- 
lar ones,  you  know  — and  I am  now  working  at  an  essay  on 
the  Bronze  Age  in  South  Europe.  But  I am  a teacher,  and 
have  a fairly  good  position  — that  of  a superintendent  of  a 
private  school.” 

“ You  have  come  out  here  to  work,  to  study  — I remember 
you  said  so  this  morning.” 

He  did  not  answer,  but  continued : “ It  was  the  same  thing 

with  my  father.  He  wanted  to  be  an  artist  — wanted  it  more 
than  anything  else,  and  he  came  out  here  for  a year.  Then 
he  married,  and  is  now  the  owner  of  a lithographic  press,  which 
he  has  kept  going  for  twenty-six  years  under  great  difficulties. 
I don’t  believe  my  father  thinks  he  has  got  much  out  of  life.” 

Jenny  Winge  sat  as  before,  looking  thoughtfully  in  front  of 
her.  In  the  orchard  below  grew  rows  of  vegetables,  small  in- 
nocent tufts  of  green  on  the  grey  soil,  and  on  the  far  side  of 
the  meadow  one  could  see  the  yellow  masses  of  ruins  on  the 
Palatine  against  the  dark  foliage.  The  day  promised  to  be 
warm.  The  Alban  mountains  in  the  distance,  beyond  the  pines 
of  the  villa  gardens,  looked  misty  against  the  soft  blue  of 
the  sky. 

Jenny  drank  some  wine,  still  looking  straight  ahead.  Helge 
followed  with  his  eyes  the  smoke  of  her  cigarette  — a faint 
morning  breeze  carried  it  out  in  the  sunshine.  She  sat  with  her 
legs  crossed.  She  had  small  ankles,  and  her  feet  were  clad  in 
thin  purple  stockings  and  bead-embroidered  evening  shoes. 
The  jacket  was  open  over  the  gathered  silver-grey  dress  with 
the  white  collar  and  the  beads,  which  threw  pink  spots  on  her 


44  JENNY 

milky-white  neck.  The  fur  cap  had  slid  back  from  her  fair, 
fluffy  hair. 

“ I suppose  you  have  the  support  of  your  father,  though,  Mr. 
Gram  — I mean,  he  understands  you,  doesn’t  he?  Surely  he 
sees  that  you  can’t  get  ahead  so  quickly  at  that  school,  when  you 
have  quite  different  work  at  heart?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.  He  was  very  pleased  that  I could  go  abroad, 
of  course,  but” — after  some  hesitation — “I  have  never  been 
very  intimate  with  my  father.  And  then  there  is  mother.  She 
was  anxious  lest  I should  work  too  hard,  or  be  short  of  money 
— or  risk  my  future.  F ather  and  mother  are  so  different  — she 
has  never  quite  understood  him,  and  kept  more  to  us  children. 
She  was  a great  deal  to  me  when  I was  a boy,  but  she  was 
jealous  of  father  even  — that  he  should  have  greater  influence 
over  me  than  she  had.  She  was  jealous  of  my  work  too,  when 
I locked  myself  up  in  a room  of  an  evening  to  read,  and  always 
anxious  about  my  health  and  afraid  I should  give  up  my  post.” 

Jenny  nodded  several  times  thoughtfully. 

“ The  letter  I fetched  at  the  post  office  was  from  them.”  He 
took  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  looked  at  it,  but  he  did  not  open 
it.  “ It  is  my  birthday  today,”  he  said,  trying  to  smile.  “ I 
am  twenty-six.” 

“ Many  happy  returns.”  Miss  Winge  shook  hands  with  him. 
She  looked  at  him  almost  in  the  same  way  as  she  looked  at 
Miss  Jahrman  when  she  nestled  in  her  arms. 

She  had  not  noticed  before  what  he  looked  like,  though  she 
was  under  the  impression  that  he  was  tall  and  thin  and  dark. 
He  had  good,  regular  features  on  the  whole,  a high,  somewhat 
narrow  forehead,  light  brown  eyes  with  a peculiar  amber-like 
transparency,  and  a small,  weak  mouth  with  a tired  and  sad 
expression  under  the  moustache. 

“ I understand  you  so  well,”  she  said  suddenly.  “ I know 
all  that.  I was  a teacher  myself  until  Christmas  last  year.  I 


JENNY 


4 5 

started  as  a governess  and  went  on  till  I was  old  enough  to 
enter  the  seminary.”  She  smiled  a little  shyly.  “ I gave  up 
my  post  in  the  school  when  I was  left  a small  amount  of  money 
by  an  aunt,  and  went  abroad.  It  will  last  me  about  three 
years,  I think  — perhaps  a little  longer.  Lately  I have  sent 
some  articles  to  the  papers,  and  I may  sell  some  pictures.  My 
mother  did  not  approve  of  my  using  up  all  the  money,  and  did 
not  like  my  giving  up  my  post  when  I had  got  it  at  last  after 
all  those  years  of  private  teaching  and  odd  lessons  here  and  there 
at  schools.  I suppose  mothers  always  think  a fixed  salary.  . . .” 

“ I don’t  think  I would  have  risked  it  in  your  place  — burn- 
ing all  your  bridges  like  that.  It  is  the  influence  of  my  home, 
I know,  but  I could  not  help  being  anxious  about  the  time  when 
the  money  would  be  spent.” 

“ Never  mind,”  said  Jenny  Winge.  “ I am  well  and  strong 
and  know  a lot;  I can  sew  and  cook  and  wash  and  iron.  And 
I know  languages.  I can  always  find  something  to  do  in 
England  or  America.  Francesca,”  she  said,  laughing,  “ wants 
me  to  go  to  South  Africa  with  her  and  be  a dairy-maid,  for  that 
is  a thing  she  is  good  at,  she  says.  And  we  shall  draw  the 
Zulus;  they  are  said  to  be  such  splendid  models.” 

“ That  is  no  small  job  either  — and  the  distance  does  not 
seem  to  trouble  you.” 

“ Not  a bit  — I am  talking  nonsense,  of  course.  All  those 
years  I thought  it  impossible  to  get  away,  even  as  far  as  Copen- 
hagen, to  stay  there  some  time  to  paint  and  learn.  When  at 
last  I made  up  my  mind  to  give  up  everything  and  go,  I had 
many  a bad  moment,  I can  assure  you.  My  people  thought  it 
madness,  and  I noticed  that  it  made  an  impression  on  me,  but 
that  made  me  more  determined  still.  To  paint  has  always  been 
my  most  ardent  wish,  and  I knew  I could  never  work  at  home 
as  hard  as  I ought  to;  there  were  too  many  things  to  distract 
me.  But  mother  could  not  see  that  I was  so  old  that  if  I 
wanted  to  learn  something  I must  start  at  once.  She  is  only 


46  JENNY 

nineteen  years  older  than  I;  when  I was  eleven  she  married 
again,  and  that  made  her  younger  still. 

“ The  curious  thing  when  you  leave  home  is  that  the  in- 
fluence of  the  people  with  whom  you  accidentally  have  lived  is 
broken.  You  learn  to  see  with  your  own  eyes  and  to  think 
for  yourself,  and  you  understand  that  it  rests  with  yourself  to 
get  something  good  out  of  your  journey:  what  you  mean  to  see 
and  to  learn,  how  you  mean  to  arrange  your  life  and  what 
influence  you  choose  to  submit  to.  You  learn  to  understand 
that  what  you  will  get  out  of  life  as  a whole  depends  on  your- 
self. Circumstances  count  for  something,  of  course,  as  you 
said,  but  you  learn  how  to  avoid  obstacles  or  surmount  them  in 
the  way  that  comes  easiest  to  your  individuality,  and  most  of 
the  disagreeable  things  that  happen  to  you  are  of  your  own 
doing.  You  are  never  alone  in  your  home,  don’t  you  think? 
The  greatest  advantage  of  travelling  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
alone,  without  any  one  to  help  or  advise  you.  You  cannot  ap- 
preciate all  you  owe  to  your  home,  or  be  grateful  for  it,  until 
you  are  away  from  it,  and  you  know  that  you  will  never  be 
dependent  on  it  any  more,  since  you  are  your  own  master.  You 
cannot  really  love  it  till  then  — for  how  could  you  love  any- 
thing that  you  are  dependent  on?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.  Are  we  not  always  dependent  on  what  we 
love?  — you  and  your  work,  for  instance.  And  when  once  you 
get  really  fond  of  people,”  he  said  quietly,  “ you  make  your- 
self dependent  on  them  for  good  and  all.” 

“Ye  — s ” — she  reflected  a moment,  then  said  suddenly, 
“ but  it  is  your  own  choice.  You  are  not  a slave;  you  serve 
willingly  something  or  somebody  that  you  prize  higher  than 
yourself.  Are  you  not  glad  you  can  begin  the  new  year  alone, 
entirely  free,  and  only  do  the  work  you  like?  ” 

Helge  remembered  the  previous  evening  in  the  piazza  San 
Pietro;  he  looked  at  the  city,  the  soft  veiled  colourings  of  it  in 
the  sun,  and  he  looked  at  the  fair  young  girl  beside  him. 


JENNY 


47 


“ Yes,”  he  said. 

“Well  ” — she  rose,  buttoned  her  jacket,  and  opened  the 
paint-box  — “ I must  work  now.” 

“ And  I suppose  you  would  like  to  get  rid  of  me?” 

Jenny  smiled.  “ I daresay  you  are  tired  too.” 

“ Not  very  — I must  pay  the  bill.” 

She  called  the  woman  and  helped  him,  squeezing  out  colours 
on  to  her  palette  meanwhile. 

“ Do  you  think  you  can  find  your  way  back  to  town?  ” 

“Yes;  I remember  exactly  how  we  came,  and  I shall  soon 
find  a cab,  I suppose.  Do  you  ever  go  to  the  club?  ” 

“ Yes,  sometimes.” 

“ I should  like  very  much  to  meet  you  again.” 

“ I daresay  you  will  ” — and  after  a moment’s  hesitation: 

“ Come  and  see  us  one  day,  if  you  care,  and  have  tea.  Via 
Vantaggio  111.  Cesca  and  I are  generally  at  home  in  the  after- 
noon.” 

“ Thanks,  I should  like  to  very  much.  Good-bye,  then,  and 
thanks  so  much.” 

She  gave  him  her  hand:  “ The  same  to  you.” 

At  the  gate  he  looked  back;  she  was  scraping  her  canvas 
with  a palette  knife  and  humming  the  song  they  had  heard  in 
the  café.  He  remembered  the  tune,  and  began  to  hum  it  him- 
self as  he  walked  away. 

IV 

JENNY  brought  her  arms  out  from  under  the  blanket  and 
put  them  behind  her  neck.  It  was  icy  cold  in  the  room, 
and  dark.  No  ray  of  light  came  through  the  shutters. 
She  struck  a match  and  looked  at  her  watch  — it  was  nearly 
seven.  She  could  doze  a little  longer,  and  she  crept  down  under 
the  blankets  again,  with  her  head  deep  in  the  pillow. 

“ Jenny,  are  you  asleep?  ” Francesca  opened  the  door  with- 


JENNY 


48 

out  knocking,  and  came  close  to  the  bed.  She  felt  for  her 
friend’s  face  in  the  dark  and  stroked  it.  “ Tired?  ” 

“No.  I am  going  to  get  up  now.” 

“ When  did  you  come  home?  ” 

“ About  three  o’clock.  I went  to  Prati  for  a bath  before 
lunch  and  ate  at  the  Ripetta,  you  know,  and  when  I came 
home  I went  to  bed  at  once.  I am  thoroughly  rested.  I’ll 
get  up  now.” 

“Wait  a moment.  It’s  very  cold;  let  me  light  the  fire.” 
Francesca  lighted  the  lamp  on  the  table. 

“Why  not  call  the  signora?  Oh,  Cesca,  come  here,  let  me 
look  at  you.”  Jenny  sat  up  in  bed. 

Francesca  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  by  the  bed  and  turned 
slowly  round  in  the  light  of  it.  She  had  put  on  a white  blouse 
with  her  green  skirt  and  thrown  a striped  scarf  about  her 
shoulders.  Round  her  neck  she  wore  a double  row  of  deep  red 
corals,  and  long,  polished  drops  hung  from  her  ears.  She 
pulled  her  hair  laughingly  from  her  ears  to  show  that  the 
drops  were  tied  to  them  by  means  of  darning  wool. 

“Fancy,  I got  them  for  sixty-eight  lire  — a bargain,  wasn’t 
it?  Do  you  think  they  suit  me?  ” 

“ Capitally!  With  that  costume,  too.  I should  like  to  paint 
you  as  you  are  now.” 

“Yes,  do.  I can  sit  to  you  if  you  like  — I’m  too  restless 
nowadays  to  work.  Oh  dear!  ” She  sighed  and  sat  down  on 
the  bed.  “ I had  better  go  and  bring  the  coal.” 

She  came  back  carrying  an  earthenware  pot  of  burning  char- 
coal, and  stooped  down  over  the  little  stove.  “ Stay  in  bed, 
dear,  till  it  gets  a little  warmer  in  here.  I will  make  the  tea 
and  lay  the  table.  I see  you  have  brought  your  drawing  home. 
Let  me  have  a look  at  it.”  She  placed  the  board  against  a 
chair  and  held  the  lamp  to  it. 

“ I say!  I say!  ” 

“ It  is  not  too  bad  — what  do  you  think?  I am  going  to 


JENNY 


49 

make  a few  more  sketches  out  there.  I am  planning  a big  pic- 
ture, you  see  — don’t  you  think  it  is  a good  subject,  with  all 
the  working  people  and  the  mule-carts  in  the  excavation  field?  ” 

“ Very  good.  I am  sure  you  can  make  something  of  it.  I 
should  like  to  show  it  to  Gunnar  and  Ahlin.  Oh,  you  are  up ! 
Let  me  do  your  hair.  What  a mass  of  it  you  have,  child.  May 
I do  it  in  the  new  fashion?  — with  curls,  you  know.”  Fran- 
cesca pulled  her  fingers  through  her  friend’s  long,  fair  hair. 
“ Sit  quite  still.  There  was  a letter  for  you  this  morning.  I 
brought  it  up.  Did  you  find  it?  It  was  from  your  little 
brother,  was  it  not?  ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Jenny. 

“Was  it  nice?  — were  you  pleased?  ” 

“Yes,  very  nice.  You  know,  Cesca,  sometimes  — only  on 
a Sunday  morning  once  in  a while  — I wish  I could  fly  home 
and  go  for  a stroll  in  Nordmarken  with  Kalfatrus.  He  is  such 
a brick,  that  boy.” 

Francesca  looked  at  Jenny’s  smiling  face  in  the  glass.  She 
took  down  her  hair  and  began  to  brush  it  again. 

“ No,  Cesca;  there  is  no  time  for  it.” 

“ Oh  yes.  If  they  come  too  early  they  can  go  into  my  room. 
It  is  in  a terrible  state  — a regular  pigsty  — but  never  mind. 
They  won’t  come  so  early  — not  Gunnar,  and  I don’t  mind  him 
if  he  does,  and  not  Ahlin  either  for  that  matter.  He  has  al- 
ready been  to  see  me  this  morning;  I was  in  bed,  and  he  sat 
and  talked.  I sent  him  out  on  to  the  balcony  while  I dressed, 
and  then  we  went  out  and  had  a good  meal  at  Tre  Re.  We 
have  been  together  the  whole  afternoon.” 

Jenny  said  nothing. 

“We  saw  Gram  at  Nazionale.  Isn’t  he  awful?  Have  you 
ever  seen  anything  like  it?  ” 

“ I don’t  think  he  is  bad  at  all.  He  is  awkward,  poor  boy, 
exactly  as  I was  at  first.  He  is  one  of  those  people  who  would 
like  to  enjoy  themselves,  but  don’t  know  how  to.” 


JENNY 


50 

“ I came  from  Florence  this  morning,”  said  Francesca,  im- 
itating him,  and  laughed.  “Ugh!  If  he  had  come  by  aero- 
plane at  least.” 

“ You  were  exceedingly  rude  to  him,  my  dear.  It  won’t  do. 
I should  have  liked  to  ask  him  here  tonight,  but  I dared  not 
because  of  you.  I could  not  take  the  risk  of  your  being  dis- 
courteous to  him  when  he  was  our  guest.” 

“No  fear  of  that.  You  know  that  quite  well.”  Francesca 
was  hurt. 

“ Do  you  remember  that  time  when  Douglas  came  home  with 
me  to  tea?  ” 

“ Yes,  after  that  model  business,  but  that  was  quite  a differ- 
ent matter.” 

“ Nonsense.  It  was  no  concern  of  yours.” 

“Wasn’t  it?  When  he  had  proposed  to  me  and  I had  very 
nearly  accepted  him.” 

“ How  could  he  know?  ” said  Jenny. 

“ Anyway,  I had  not  quite  said  no,  and  the  day  before  I had 
been  with  him  to  Versailles.  He  kissed  me  there  several  times 
and  lay  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  and  when  I told  him  I didn’t 
care  for  him  he  didn’t  believe  me.” 

“ It  is  not  right,  Cesca.”  Jenny  caught  her  eye  in  the  mirror. 
“ You  are  the  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world  when  you  use  your 
brains,  but  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  you  had  no  idea  you  are 
dealing  with  living  beings,  with  people  who  have  feelings  that 
you  must  respect.  You  'would  respect  them  if  you  were  not 
so  thoughtless,  for  I know  you  only  want  to  be  good  and  kind.” 

“ Per  Bacco.  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that.  But  I must  show 
you  some  roses.  Ahlin  bought  me  quite  a load  this  afternoon 
at  a Spanish  stairs.”  Cesca  smiled  defiantly. 

“ You  ought  to  stop  that  kind  of  thing,  I think  — if  only  be- 
cause you  know  he  cannot  afford  it.” 

“ I don’t  care.  If  he  is  in  love  with  me,  I suppose  he  likes 


it.” 


JENNY 


51 

“ I won’t  talk  of  reputation  after  all  these  doings  of  yours.” 
“ No,  better  not  speak  about  my  reputation.  You  are  quite 
right  there.  At  home,  in  Christiania,  I have  spoilt  my  reputa- 
tion past  mending,  once  and  for  all.”  She  laughed  hysterically. 
“Damn  it  all!  I don’t  care.” 

“ I don’t  understand  you,  Cesca  darling.  You  don’t  care 
for  any  of  those  men.  Why  do  you  want.  . . . And  as  to 
Ahlin,  can’t  you  see  he  is  in  earnest?  Norman  Douglas,  too, 
was  in  earnest.  You  don’t  know  what  you  are  doing.  I really 
do  believe,  child,  that  you’ve  no  instincts  at  all.” 

Francesca  put  away  brush  and  comb  and  looked  at  Jenny’s 
hairdressing  in  the  glass.  She  tried  to  retain  her  defiant  little 
smile,  but  it  faded  away  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

“ I had  a letter  this  morning,  too.”  Her  voice  trembled. 
“ From  Berlin,  from  Borghild.”  Jenny  rose  from  the  dressing- 
table.  “ Yes,  perhaps  you  had  better  get  ready.  Will  you 
put  the  kettle  on,  or  do  you  think  we’d  better  cook  the  arti- 
chokes first?  ” She  began  to  make  the  bed.  “We  might  call 
Marietta  — but  don’t  you  think  we  had  better  do  it  ourselves?  ” 
“ Borghild  writes  that  Hans  Hermann  was  married  last  week. 
His  wife  is  already  expecting  a child.” 

Jenny  put  the  matchbox  on  the  table.  She  glanced  at  Fran- 
cesca’s miserable  little  face  and  then  went  quietly  up  to  her. 

“ It  is  that  singer,  Berit  Eck,  you  know,  he  was  engaged  to.” 
Francesca  spoke  in  a faint  voice,  leaning  for  an  instant  against 
her  friend,  and  then  began  to  arrange  the  sheets  with  trembling 
hands. 

“ But  you  knew  they  were  engaged  — more  than  a year  ago.” 
“Yes  — let  me  do  that,  Jenny;  you  lay  the  table.  I know, 
of  course,  that  you  knew  all  about  it.” 

Jenny  laid  the  table  for  four.  Francesca  put  the  counter- 
pane on  the  bed  and  brought  the  roses.  She  stood  fumbling 
with  her  blouse,  then  pulled  out  a letter  from  inside  it  and 
twisted  it  between  her  fingers. 


JENNY 


S2 

“ She  met  them  at  the  Thiergarten  — she  writes.  She  says 
— oh,  she  can  be  brutal  sometimes,  Borghild.”  Francesca 
went  quickly  across  the  room,  pulled  open  the  door  of  the  stove, 
and  threw  the  letter  in.  Then  she  sank  down  in  an  arm-chair 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Jenny  went  to  her  and  put  one  arm  round  her  neck. 

“ Cesca,  dearest  little  Cesca ! ” 

Francesca  pressed  her  face  against  Jenny’s  arm: 

“ She  looked  so  miserable,  poor  thing.  She  hung  on  his 
arm,  and  he  seemed  sullen  and  angry.  I can  quite  imagine  it. 
I am  sorry  for  her  — fancy  allowing  herself  to  become  de- 
pendent on  him  in  such  a way.  He  has  brought  her  to  her 
knees,  I am  sure.  How  could  she  be  such  an  idiot,  when  she 
knew  him?  Oh,  but  think  of  it,  Jenny!  He  is  going  to  have 
a child  by  somebody  else  — oh,  my  God!  my  God!  ” 

Jenny  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Cesca  nestled  close  to 
her: 

“ I suppose  you  are  right  — I have  no  instincts.  Perhaps 
I never  loved  him  really,  but  I should  have  liked  to  have  a 
child  by  him.  And  yet  I could  not  make  up  my  mind.  Some- 
times he  wanted  me  to  marry  him  straight  off,  go  to  the  registry 
office,  but  I wouldn’t.  They  would  have  been  so  angry  with 
me  at  home,  and  people  would  have  said  we  were  obliged  to 
marry,  if  we  had  done  it  that  way.  I did  not  want  that  either, 
although  I knew  they  thought  the  worst  of  me  all  the  same, 
but  that  did  not  worry  me.  I knew  I was  ruining  my  reputa- 
tion for  his  sake,  but  I did  not  care,  and  I don’t  care  now,  I 
tell  you. 

“ But  he  thought  I refused  because  I was  afraid  he  would 
not  marry  me  afterwards.  ‘ Let’s  go  to  the  registry  office  first, 
then,  you  silly  girl,’  he  said,  but  I would  not  go.  He  thought  it 
was  all  sham.  ‘You  cold!’  he  said;  ‘you  are  not  cold  any 
longer  than  you  choose  to  be.’  Sometimes  I almost  thought  I 
wasn’t.  Perhaps  it  was  only  fright,  for  he  was  such  a brute; 


JENNY 


53 

he  beat  me  sometimes  — nearly  tore  the  clothes  off  me.  I had 
to  scratch  and  bite  to  protect  myself  — and  cry  and  scream.” 
“ And  yet  you  went  back  to  him?  ” said  Jenny. 

“ I did,  that  is  true.  The  porter’s  wife  did  not  want  to  do 
his  rooms  any  longer,  so  I went  and  tidied  up  for  him.  I had 
a key.  I scrubbed  the  floor  and  made  his  bed  — Heaven  only 
knows  who  had  been  in  it.” 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 

“ Borghild  was  furious  about  it.  She  proved  to  me  that  he 
had  a mistress.  I knew  it,  but  I did  not  want  proof.  Borg- 
hild said  he  had  given  me  the  key,  because  he  wanted  me  to 
take  them  by  surprise,  and  make  me  jealous,  so  that  I should 
give  in,  as  I was  compromised  anyway.  But  she  was  not  right, 
for  it  was  me  he  loved  — in  his  way  — I know  he  loved  me  as 
much  as  he  could  love  anybody. 

“ Borghild  was  angry  with  me  because  I pawned  the  diamond 
ring  I had  from  our  grandmother.  I have  never  told  you 
about  it.  Hans  said  he  had  to  have  money  — a hundred  kroner 
— and  I promised  to  get  it.  Where  I didn’t  know.  I dared 
not  write  to  father,  for  I’d  spent  more  than  my  allowance 
already,  so  I went  and  pawned  my  watch  and  a chain  brace- 
let and  that  ring  — one  of  those  old  ones,  you  know,  with 
a lot  of  little  diamonds  on  a big  shield.  Borghild  was  angry 
because  it  had  not  been  given  to  her,  being  the  eldest,  but 
grandmother  had  said  I should  have  it,  as  I was  named  after 
her.  I went  down  one  morning  as  soon  as  they  opened;  it 
was  hateful,  but  I got  the  money  and  I took  it  to  Hans.  He 
asked  where  I had  got  it  from,  and  I told  him.  Then  he  kissed 
me  and  said : 1 Give  me  the  ticket  and  the  money,  puss  ’ — that 

is  what  he  used  to  call  me  — - and  I did.  I thought  he  meant 
to  redeem  it,  and  said  he  need  not.  I was  very  much  moved, 
you  see.  ‘ I will  settle  it  in  another  way,’  said  Hans,  and  went 
out.  I stayed  in  his  rooms  and  waited.  I was  very  excited, 
for  I knew  he  wanted  the  money,  and  I decided  to  go  and  pawn 


JENNY 


54 

the  things  again  the  next  day.  It  would  not  be  so  horrid  a 
second  time  — nothing  more  would  be  difficult.  I would  give 
him  everything  now.  Then  he  came  — and  what  do  you  think 
he  had  done?  ” She  laughed  amidst  the  tears.  “ He  had  re- 
deemed the  things  from  the  loan-office  and  pawned  them  with 
his  private  banker,  as  he  called  him,  who  gave  more  for  them. 

“We  went  about  all  day  together  — champagne  and  all  the 
rest  of  it  — and  I went  home  with  him  at  night.  He  played  to 
me  — my  God,  how  he  played ! I lay  on  the  floor  and  cried. 
Nothing  mattered  as  long  as  he  played  like  that,  and  to  me 
alone.  You  have  not  heard  him  play;  if  you  had,  you  would 
understand  me.  But  afterwards  it  was  awful.  We  fought  like 
mad,  but  I got  away  at  last.  Borghild  was  awake  when  I came 
home.  My  dress  was  torn  to  tatters.  ‘ You  look  like  a street- 
girl,’  she  said.  I laughed.  It  was  five  o’clock. 

“ I should  have  given  in  in  the  end,  you  know,  if  it  hadn’t 
been  for  one  thing  he  had  said.  Sometimes  he  used  to  say: 
‘ You  are  the  only  decent  girl  I have  met.  There  is  not  a man 
who  could  get  round  you.  I respect  you,  puss.’  Fancy,  he 
respected  me  for  refusing  to  do  what  he  begged  and  worried  me 
about  constantly.  I wanted  to  give  in,  for  I would  have  done 
anything  to  please  him,  but  I could  not  get  over  my  scare;  he 
was  so  brutal,  and  I knew  there  were  others.  If  only  he  had  not 
frightened  me  so  many  times,  I might  have  given  up  the  struggle 
but  then,  of  course,  I should  have  lost  his  respect.  That 
is  why  I broke  with  him  at  last  — for  wanting  me  to  act  in 
such  a way  that  he  would  despise  me.” 

She  nestled  close  to  Jenny,  who  caressed  her. 

“ Do  you  love  me  a little,  Jenny?  ” 

“ You  know  I do,  darling  child.” 

“You  are  so  kind.  Kiss  me  once  more!  Gunnar  is  kind, 
too  — and  Ahlin.  I shall  be  more  careful.  I don’t  wish  him 
any  harm.  Besides,  I may  marry  him,  as  he  is  so  fond  of  me. 
Ahlin  would  never  be  brutal  — I know  that.  Do  you  think 


JENNY 


55 

he  would  worry  me?  Not  much.  And  I might  have  children. 
Some  day  I will  come  into  money,  and  he  is  so  poor.  We  could 
live  abroad  and  we  could  both  work.  There  is  something  re- 
fined about  all  his  work,  don’t  you  think?  That  relief  of  the 
boys  playing,  for  instance,  and  the  cast  for  the  Almquist  monu- 
ment. Not  very  original,  perhaps,  in  composition,  but  so  beau- 
tiful, so  noble  and  restful,  and  the  figures  so  perfectly  plas- 
tic.” 

Jenny  smiled  a little  and  stroked  the  hair  from  Francesca’s 
forehead;  it  was  wet  with  tears. 

“ I wish  I could  work  like  that  — always  — but  I have  those 
eternal  pains  in  my  heart  and  my  head.  My  eyes  hurt  me  too, 
and  I am  dead  tired  always.” 

“ You  know  what  your  doctor  says  — only  nerves  — every 
bit  of  it.  If  you  only  would  be  sensible!  ” 

“ I know.  That  is  what  they  all  say,  but  I am  afraid.  You 
say  that  I have  no  instincts  — not  in  the  way  you  mean,  but  I 
have  them  all  right  in  another  way.  I have  been  a devil  all  this 
week  — I know  it  perfectly  well  — but  I have  been  waiting  all 
the  time  for  something  awful  I knew  was  going  to  happen. 
You  see,  I was  right.” 

Jenny  kissed  her  again. 

“ I was  down  at  S.  Agostino  tonight.  You  know  that  image 
of  the  Madonna  that  works  miracles;  I knelt  before  it  and 
prayed  to  the  Virgin.  I think  I should  be  happier  if  I turned 
Catholic.  A woman  like  the  Virgin  Mary  Avould  understand. 
I ought  really  never  to  marry.  I ought  to  go  into  a convent  — 
Siena,  for  instance.  I might  paint  copies  in  the  gallery  and 
earn  some  money  for  the  convent.  When  I copied  that  angel 
for  Melozzo  da  Forli  in  Florence  there  was  a nun  painting  every 
day.  It  wasn’t  so  bad.”  She  laughed.  “ I mean,  it  was 
awful.  I hated  it.  But  they  all  said  my  copies  were  so  good 
— and  so  they  were.  I believe  I should  be  happy  in  that  way. 
Oh,  Jenny,  if  I only  felt  well  and  were  at  peace  in  my  mind, 


JENNY 


56 

but  I am  so  bewildered  and  frightened.  If  I were  well,  I 
could  work,  work  — always.  And  I’d  be  so  good  and  nice  — 
you  don’t  know  how  good  I could  be.  I know  I am  not  al- 
ways good.  I give  in  to  every  mood  when  I feel  as  I do  at 
present.  I am  going  to  stop  it,  if  only  you  will  love  me,  all  of 
you,  but  you  especially.  Let  us  ask  that  Gram  here.  Next 
time  I see  him  I’ll  be  so  nice  and  sweet  to  him,  you  see.  We’ll 
ask  him  here  and  take  him  out,  and  I will  do  anything  to  amuse 
him.  Do  you  hear,  Jenny?  Are  you  pleased  with  me  now?  ” 

“ Yes,  Cesca  dear.” 

“ Gunnar  does  not  think  I can  be  serious,”  she  said  pen- 
sively. 

“ Oh  yes,  he  does;  he  only  thinks  you  are  very  childish. 
You  know  what  he  thinks  of  your  work.  Don’t  you  remember 
what  he  said  in  Paris  about  your  energy  and  your  talent? 
Great  and  original,  he  said.  He  did  not  think  lightly  of  you 
that  time.” 

“ Gunnar  is  a nice  boy,  but  he  was  angry  with  me  because 
of  Douglas.” 

“ Any  man  would  have  been  angry  with  you.  I was,  too.” 

Francesca  sighed  and  sat  quiet  an  instant.  “ How  did  you 
get  rid  of  Gram  ? I thought  you  would  never  be  able  to  shake 
that  fellow  off.  I thought  that  he  would  come  home  with  you 
and  sleep  here  on  the  sofa.” 

Jenny  laughed.  “ Oh  no!  He  went  with  me  to  the  Aventine 
and  had  breakfast;  then  he  went  home.  I rather  like  him,  you 
know.” 

“ Dio  mio!  Jenny,  you  are  abnormally  good.  Have  you 
not  got  enough  to  mother  already,  with  us  ? Or  have  you  fallen 
in  love  with  him?  ” 

Jenny  laughed  again.  “ I don’t  think  there  is  much  chance 
for  me.  I suppose  he  will  fall  in  love  with  you,  like  the  rest, 
if  you  are  not  careful.” 

“ They  all  do,  it  seems  — Heaven  only  knows  why.  But 


JENNY  57 

they  soon  get  cured,  and  then  they’re  angry  with  me  after- 
wards.” She  sighed. 

They  heard  steps  on  the  stairs. 

“ That  is  Gunnar.  I am  going  into  my  room  a little.  I 
must  bathe  my  eyes.” 

She  passed  Heggen  in  the  door  with  a short  greeting  as  she 
hurried  away.  He  shut  the  door  and  came  into  the  room. 

“ You  are  all  right,  I see  — but  so  you  always  are.  You 
are  an  extraordinary  girl,  Jenny.  I suppose  you  have  been 
working  all  the  morning  — and  she?”  He  pointed  towards 
Cesca’s  room. 

“ In  a bad  state,  poor  little  thing.” 

“ I saw  it  in  the  papers  when  I looked  in  at  the  club.  Have 
you  finished  the  study?  Show  me.  It  is  very  good.”  Heg- 
gen held  the  picture  to  the  light  and  looked  at  it  for  some  time. 
“ This  part  stands  out  beautifully.  It  is  powerful  work.  Is 
she  lying  on  her  bed  crying,  do  you  think?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.  She  has  been  crying  in  here.  She  had  a 
letter  from  her  sister.” 

“ If  ever  I meet  that  cad,”  said  Hebben,  “ I shall  find  some 
pretext  to  give  him  a sound  thrashing.” 


V 

ONE  afternoon  Helge  Gram  sat  in  the  club  reading 
Norwegian  newspapers.  He  was  alone  in  the  read- 
ing-room when  Miss  Jahrman  entered.  He  stood  up 
and  bowed,  but  she  came  up  to  him  with  a smile  and  shook 
hands:  “How  are  you  getting  on?  Jenny  and  I have  been 

wondering  why  we  never  see  you;  we  were  determined  to  come 
here  on  Saturday  to  see  if  we  could  find  you  and  ask  you  to  go 
out  with  us  somewhere.  Have  you  got  rooms  yet?  ” 


JENNY 


58 

“ No,  I am  sorry  to  say.  I am  still  at  the  hotel.  All  the 
rooms  I have  seen  are  so  expensive.” 

“ But  it  is  not  cheaper  at  the  hotel,  is  it?  I suppose  you 
have  to  pay  three  lire  a day  at  least?  I thought  so.  It  is  not 
cheap  in  Rome,  you  know.  You  must  have  rooms  to  the  south 
in  winter.  You  don’t  speak  Italian,  of  course,  but  why  did 
you  not  ask  us  to  help  you?  Jenny  or  I would  willingly  have 
gone  with  you  to  look  for  rooms.” 

“ Thank  you  very  much.  I would  not  dream  of  troubling 
you  about  that.” 

“ It  is  no  trouble  whatever.  How  are  you  getting  on? 
Have  you  met  any  people?  ” 

“ No.  I came  here  on  Saturday,  but  I did  not  speak  to 
anybody.  I read  the  papers.  The  day  before  yesterday  I saw 
Heggen  in  a café  on  the  Corso  and  exchanged  a few  words  with 
him.  I have  also  met  two  German  doctors  I knew  in  Florence, 
and  I went  with  them  to  Via  Appi  one  day.” 

“ Ugh!  German  doctors  are  not  nice,  are  they?  ” 

Helge  smiled,  embarrassed. 

“ Perhaps  not,  but  we  have  some  interests  in  common,  and 
when  one  goes  about  without  having  anybody  to  talk  to.  . . .” 

“ Yes,  but  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  speak  Italian; 
you  know  the  language,  don’t  you?  Come  for  a walk  with 
me  and  we  will  talk  Italian  all  the  way.  I shall  be  a very 
strict  maestra,  you  will  see.” 

“ Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Jahrman,  but  I am  afraid  you 
will  not  find  me  very  entertaining  — except  unwittingly  per- 
haps.” 

“Rubbish!  Look  here,  I’ve  got  an  idea!  Two  old  Danish 
ladies  left  for  Capri  the  day  before  yesterday.  Their  room 
may  be  vacant  still.  I am  sure  it  is.  A nice  little  room  and 
cheap.  I don’t  remember  the  name  of  the  street,  but  I know 
where  it  is.  Shall  I go  with  you  and  have  a look  at  it?  Come 
along.” 


JENNY  59 

On  the  stairs  she  turned  round  and  smiled  awkwardly  at 
him: 

“ I was  awfully  rude  to  you  the  other  evening,  Mr.  Gram. 
Please  accept  my  apologies.” 

“My  dear  Miss  Jahrman!  ” 

“ I was  out  of  sorts  that  day.  You  cannot  imagine  what  a 
scolding  I got  from  Jenny,  but  I deserved  it.” 

“ Not  at  all.  I was  to  blame  for  forcing  my  company  upon 
you,  but  it  was  so  tempting  to  speak  to  you  when  I saw  you  and 
heard  that  you  were  Norwegians.” 

“ Of  course,  an  adventure  like  that  could  be  great  fun,  but 
I spoilt  it  with  my  bad  temper.  I was  ill,  you  see.  My  nerves 
worry  me;  I can’t  sleep  and  I can’t  work,  and  then  I get  horrid 
sometimes.” 

“ Are  you  feeling  better  now?  ” 

“Not  really.  Jenny  and  Gunnar  are  working  — everybody 
works  but  myself.  Is  your  work  getting  on  all  right?  Aren’t 
you  pleased?  Every  afternoon  I sit  to  Jenny  for  my  picture. 
I am  having  a day  off  today.  I think  she  does  it  only  to  pre- 
vent me  from  being  alone  with  my  thoughts.  Sometimes  she 
takes  me  for  a ride  outside  the  walls.  She  is  like  a mother  to 
me  — Mia  cara  mammina.” 

“You  are  very  fond  of  your  friend?  ” 

“ I should  think  so!  She  is  so  good  to  me.  I am  delicate 
and  spoilt,  and  nobody  but  Jenny  could  stand  me  in  the  long 
run.  She  is  so  clever  too,  intelligent  and  energetic.  And  pretty 
— don’t  you  think  she  is  lovely?  You  should  see  her  hair 
when  it  is  let  down!  When  I am  good  she  lets  me  do  it  for 
her.  Here  we  are,”  she  said. 

They  mounted  a pitch-dark  staircase. 

“You  mustn’t  mind  the  stairs;  ours  are  still  worse:  you 
will  see  for  yourself  when  you  pay  us  a visit.  Come  one 
evening.  We’ll  get  hold  of  the  others  and  all  go  for  a proper 
rag.  I spoilt  the  last  one  for  you.” 


6o 


JENNY 


She  rang  a bell  on  the  top  floor.  The  woman  who  opened 
the  door  looked  nice  and  tidy.  She  showed  them  a room  with 
two  beds.  It  looked  out  over  a grey  backyard  with  washing 
hanging  in  the  windows,  but  there  were  plants  on  the  balconies; 
loggias  and  terraces  with  green  shrubs  rose  above  the  grey  roofs. 

Francesca  went  on  talking  to  the  woman  while  she  examined 
the  beds  and  looked  into  the  stove,  and  explained  things  to 
Helge : 

“ There’s  sun  here  all  the  morning.  When  one  bed’s  moved 
out,  the  room  will  look  bigger;  and  the  stove  is  all  right.  The 
price  is  forty  lire  without  light  and  fire,  and  two  for  servizio. 
It  is  cheap.  Shall  I say  you  take  it?  You  can  move  in  to- 
morrow, if  you  like.” 

“ Don’t  thank  me.  I just  loved  to  help  you,”  she  said,  as 
they  walked  down  the  stairs.  “ I hope  you  will  like  it.  Sig- 
nora Papi  is  very  clean,  I know.” 

“ It  is  not  a common  virtue  here,  I suppose?  ” 

“ No,  indeed.  But  I don’t  think  the  people  who  let  rooms 
in  Christiania  are  much  better.  My  sister  and  I lived  once  in 
rooms  in  Holbergsgate  and  I had  a pair  of  patent  leather  shoes 
under  the  bed,  but  I never  dared  to  take  them  out.  Sometimes 
I peeped  at  them  under  the  bed;  they  looked  like  two  little  white 
woolly  lambs.” 

“ I have  no  experience  in  that  way.  I have  always  lived  at 
home.” 

Francesca  burst  out  laughing  all  of  a sudden.  “ The  signora 
thought  I was  your  moglie,  do  you  know,  and  that  we  were 
going  to  live  there  together.  I said  I was  your  cousin,  but  she 
did  not  catch  on.  Cugina  — it  is  not  an  accepted  relationship 
anywhere  in  the  world,  it  seems.” 

Both  laughed. 

“Would  you  care  to  go  for  a walk?  ” asked  Miss  Jahrman 
suddenly.  “ Shall  we  go  to  Ponte  Molle?  Have  you  been 


JENNY 


61 


there?  Is  it  too  far?  We  can  come  back  by  tram.” 

“ Is  it  not  too  far  for  you?  You’re  not  well.” 

“ It  does  me  good  to  walk.  ‘ You  must  walk  more,’  says 
Gunnar  always  — Mr.  Heggen,  you  know.” 

She  chatted  all  the  time,  looking  at  him  now  and  again  to 
see  if  he  was  amused.  They  took  the  new  road  along  by  the 
Tiber;  the  yellow-grey  river  rolled  between  the  green  slopes. 
Small,  pearl-tinted  clouds  sailed  over  the  dark  shrubbery  of 
Monte  Mario  and  the  blocks  of  villas  between  the  evergreen 
trees. 

Francesca  nodded  to  a policeman  and  said  laughingly  to 
Gram: 

“ Do  you  know,  that  man  has  proposed  to  me.  I used  to 
walk  here  very  often  alone,  and  sometimes  I spoke  to  him,  and 
one  day  he  proposed.  The  son  of  our  tobacconist  has  also 
proposed  to  me.  Jenny  says  it  was  my  own  fault,  and  I sup- 
pose it  was.” 

“ Miss  Winge  seems  to  scold  you  very  often.  She  is  a strict 
mamma,  I can  see.” 

“No,  she  isn’t.  She  only  scolds  me  when  I need  scolding: 
I wish  somebody  had  done  it  long  before.”  She  sighed. 
“ But  nobody  ever  did.” 

Helge  Gram  felt  quite  free  and  easy  in  her  company.  There 
was  something  very  soft  about  her  — her  lissom  gait,  her  voice, 
and  her  face  under  the  big  mushroom  hat.  He  did  not  quite 
like  Jenny  Winge  when  he  thought  of  her  now;  she  had  such 
determined  grey  eyes  and  such  an  enormous  appetite.  Cesca 
had  just  told  him  that  she  herself  could  hardly  eat  anything  at 
present. 

“ Miss  Winge  is  a very  determined  young  lady,  I should 
think,”  he  said. 

“No  doubt  about  that!  She  has  a very  strong  character; 
she  has  always  been  wanting  to  paint,  but  she  had  to  go  on 


62 


JENNY 


teaching,  teaching!  She  has  had  a hard  time,  poor  Jenny. 
You  would  not  believe  it  when  you  see  her  now.  She  is  so 
strong,  she  never  gives  in.  When  I first  met  her  at  the  art 
school  I thought  she  was  very  reserved,  almost  hard  — armour- 
plated,  Gunnar  called  it.  She  was  very  retiring;  I did  not 
know  her  really  till  we  came  out  here.  Her  mother  is  a widow 
for  the  second  time  — she  is  a Mrs.  Berner  — and  there  are 
three  more  children.  They  had  only  three  small  rooms,  im- 
agine, and  Jenny  had  to  live  in  a tiny  servant’s  room,  work  and 
study  to  complete  her  education,  besides  helping  her  mother  in 
the  house  and  with  money  as  well.  They  could  not  afford  a 
servant.  She  knew  nobody  and  had  no  friends.  She  shuts 
herself  up,  as  it  were,  when  things  go  badly,  and  does  not  want 
to  complain,  but  when  she  is  in  luck  she  opens  her  arms  to 
every  one  that  needs  comfort  and  support.” 

Francesca’s  cheeks  were  burning.  She  looked  at  him  with 
her  big  eyes. 

“ All  the  bad  luck  I have  had  has  been  my  own  doing.  I am 
a bit  hysterical,  and  give  way  to  all  sorts  of  moods.  Jenny 
gives  me  a talking-to;  she  says  that  if  anything  irreparable 
happens  to  you  it  is  always  your  own  fault,  and  if  you  cannot 
train  your  will  to  master  your  moods  and  impulses  and  so  on, 
and  have  not  complete  control  of  yourself,  you  might  as  well 
commit  suicide  at  once.” 

Helge  smiled  at  her.  “ Jenny  says,”  and  “ Gunnar  says,” 
and  “ I had  a friend  who  used  to  say.”  How  young  and  trust- 
ing she  seemed! 

“ Don’t  you  think  it  possible  that  Miss  Winge’s  principles 
might  not  apply  to  you?  You  are  so  different,  you  two.  No 
two  people  have  the  same  views  on  life  itself  even.” 

“ No,”  she  said  quietly.  “ But  I am  so  fond  of  Jenny.  I 
need  her  so.” 

They  came  to  the  bridge.  Francesca  bent  over  the  railing. 
Farther  up  the  river  there  was  a factory;  its  tall  chimney  stood 


JENNY 


63 

reflected  in  the  swift  yellow  water.  Behind  the  undulating 
plain,  far  away,  lay  the  Sabine  mountains,  mud-grey  and  bare, 
and  behind  them,  farther  still,  rose  snowclad  peaks. 

“ Jenny  has  painted  this  with  strong  evening  light  on  it. 
The  factory  and  the  chimney  are  quite  red.  It  was  on  a hot 
day,  when  you  cannot  see  the  mountains  for  mist,  but  only  a 
few  white  snow-peaks  in  the  heavy  metallic  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  the  clouds  above  the  snow.  It  is  very  pretty.  I must  ask 
her  to  show  it  to  you.” 

“ Shall  we  have  some  wine  here?  ” he  asked. 

“ It’ll  soon  be  getting  cold,  but  we  might  sit  down  a little.” 
She  led  the  way  across  the  round  piazza  behind  the  bridge. 
She  chose  an  osteria  with  a small  garden.  Behind  a shed  with 
chairs  and  tables  stood  a seat  under  some  bare  elms.  At  the 
back  of  the  garden  was  a meadow,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river  the  slope  appeared  dark  against  the  limpid  sky.  Fran- 
cesca broke  a twig  from  an  elder  that  grew  by  the  fence;  it  had 
small  green  shoots,  with  tops  blackened  by  the  cold. 

“ All  the  winter  they  stand  like  that,  shivering  with  cold, 
but  when  spring  comes  they  have  not  been  harmed.” 

When  she  dropped  the  twig  he  picked  it  up  and  kept  it. 
They  had  white  wine.  Francesca  mixed  hers  with  water,  and 
hardly  drank  any  of  it.  She  smiled  imploringly: 

“Will  you  give  me  a cigarette?” 

“ With  pleasure,  if  you  think  you  can  stand  it.” 

“ I scarcely  ever  smoke  now.  Jenny  has  almost  given  it  up 
for  my  sake.  I suppose  she  is  making  up  for  it  tonight,  though. 
She  is  with  Gunnar.”  She  laughed.  “ You  must  not  tell 
Jenny  that  I smoked,  promise  me.” 

“ I won’t,”  he  said,  laughing  too. 

She  smoked  in  silence  for  a while:  “ I wish  she  and  Gunnar 

would  marry,  but  I am  afraid  they  won’t.  They  have  always 
been  such  friends.  You  don’t  easily  fall  in  love  with  a friend, 
do  you?  One  you  knew  so  well  before.  They  are  very  much 


JENNY 


64 

alike  in  character,  and  it  is  just  the  contrast  that  attracts  you, 
people  say.  It  is  stupid  it  should  be  so,  I think,  for  it  would 
be  much  better  to  fall  in  love  with  somebody  akin  to  you,  as  it 
were;  it  would  save  all  the  misery  and  disappointment,  don't 
you  think? 

“ Gunnar’s  home  is  a small  farm  in  the  country.  He  came 
to  Christiania,  to  an  aunt,  who  took  care  of  him,  because  they 
were  so  poor  at  home.  He  was  only  nine  then,  and  had  to 
carry  the  washing;  his  aunt  kept  a laundry.  Later  he  got  into 
a factory.  He’s  taught  himself  all  he  knows  by  sheer  hard 
work.  He  reads  a lot;  he  takes  an  interest  in  everything,  and 
wants  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Jenny  says  he  even  forgets  to 
paint.  He  has  learnt  Italian  thoroughly;  he  can  read  any  book 
— poetry,  too. 

“ Jenny  is  the  same.  She  has  learnt  heaps  because  it  inter- 
ested her.  I can  never  learn  out  of  books;  reading  always  give 
me  a headache.  But  when  Jenny  or  Gunnar  tell  me  things,  I 
remember  them.  You  are  very  clever  too;  do  tell  me  about  the 
things  you  are  studying.  There  is  nothing  I love  more,  and 
I store  it  in  my  memory. 

“ Gunnar  has  taught  me-  to  paint  too.  I always  loved  to 
draw;  it  came  naturally.  Three  years  ago  I met  him  in  the 
mountains  at  home.  I had  gone  there  to  sketch.  I made  very 
nice  pictures,  quite  correct,  but  not  an  ounce  of  art  in  them. 
I could  see  it  myself,  but  I could  not  understand  the  reason 
why.  I saw  there  was  something  missing  in  my  pictures  — 
something  I wanted  to  put  into  them  — but  did  not  quite  know 
what  it  was,  and  had  not  the  least  idea  how  to  get  it  there. 

“ I spoke  to  him  about  it,  showed  him  my  tilings.  He  knew 
less  than  I about  technique  — he  is  only  a year  older  than  I — 
but  he  could  make  better  use  of  what  he  had  learnt.  Then  I 
made  two  pictures  of  a summer  night  in  that  wonderful  chiaro- 
scuro, where  all  the  colours  are  so  deep  and  yet  with  such  a 
strong  light.  They  were  not  good,  of  course,  but  they  had 


JENNY 


6 5 

something  of  what  I had  wanted.  I could  see  they  were  done 
by  me  and  not  by  any  little  girl  who  had  just  learnt  something 
about  drawing.  You  see  what  I mean? 

“I’ve  a subject  out  here  — on  the  other  way  to  the  city. 
We’ll  go  there  another  time.  It  is  a road  between  two  vine- 
yards — quite  a narrow  one.  In  one  place  there  are  two  baroque 
gates  with  iron  gratings,  each  of  them  with  a cypress  beside  it. 
I have  made  a couple  of  coloured  drawings.  There  is  a heavy 
dark  blue  sky  above  the  cypresses  and  clearness  of  green  air,  and 
a star,  and  a faint  outline  of  houses  and  cupolas  in  the  dis- 
tant city.  I wanted  the  picture  to  be  sort  of  stirring,  you 
see.” 

Twilight  began  to  fall  upon  them.  Her  face  looked  pale 
under  the  brim  of  her  hat. 

“ Don’t  you  think  I ought  to  get  well,  and  be  allowed  to 
work?  ” 

“ Yes,”  he  said  in  a low  voice;  “ dear.  . . .” 

He  could  hear  that  she  was  breathing  heavily.  They  were 
both  quiet  for  a moment,  then  he  said : 

“ You  are  very  fond  of  your  friends,  Miss  Jahrman?  ” 

“ I want  to  like  everybody,  you  see,”  she  said  quietly,  taking 
a long  breath. 

Helge  Gram  bent  suddenly  forward  and  kissed  her  hand, 
which  rested  white  and  small  on  the  table. 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Francesca  in  a low  voice,  and  after  a 
short  pause: 

“Let  us  go  back  now;  it  is  getting  cold.” 

The  next  day  when  he  moved  into  his  new  room  a majolica 
vase  with  small  blue  iris  was  standing  in  the  sunlight  on  his 
table.  The  signora  explained  that  his  “ cousin  ” had  brought 
them.  When  Helge  was  alone  he  bent  over  the  flowers  and 
kissed  them  one  by  one. 


66 


JENNY 


VI 

HELGE  GRAM  liked  his  lodgings  by  the  Ripetta.  It 
seemed  easy  to  do  good  work  at  the  little  table  by  the 
window  that  looked  out  on  the  yard  with  washing  and 
flower-pots  on  the  balconies.  The  people  opposite  had  two 
children  — a boy  and  a girl  about  six  and  seven.  When  they 
came  out  on  their  balcony  they  nodded  and  waved  to  him,  and 
he  waved  back.  Lately  he  had  taken  to  greeting  their  mother 
too,  and  his  nodding  acquaintance  with  these  people  made  him 
feel  more  at  home  in  the  place.  Cesca’s  vase  stood  in  front  of 
him;  he  kept  it  always  filled  with  fresh  flowers.  Signora  Papi 
was  quick  at  understanding  his  Italian.  It  was  because  she 
had  had  Danish  lodgers,  Cesca  said  — Danes  can  never  learn 
foreign  languages. 

Whenever  some  errand  brought  the  signora  to  his  room  she  al- 
ways stayed  a long  while  chatting  by  the  door.  Mostly  about  his 
cousin,  “ che  bella,”  said  Signora  Papi.  Once  Miss  Jahrman 
had  paid  him  a visit  alone  and  once  she  came  with  Miss  Winge, 
each  time  to  invite  him  to  tea.  When  Signora  Papi  at  last 
discovered  that  she  prevented  him  from  working,  she  broke  off 
the  conversation  and  left.  Helge  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
resting  his  neck  on  his  folded  hands.  He  thought  of  his  room 
at  home,  beside  the  kitchen,  where  he  could  hear  his  mother 
and  sister  talking  about  him,  being  anxious  about  him  or  dis- 
approving of  him.  He  heard  every  word,  as  probably  they 
meant  him  to  do.  Every  day  out  here  was  a precious  gift.  He 
had  peace  at  last  and  could  work,  work. 

He  spent  the  afternoons  in  libraries  and  museums.  As  often 
as  he  could  do  so  without  inflicting  his  company  too  much  upon 
them,  he  went  to  late  tea  with  the  two  girl  artists  at  Via  Van- 
taggio.  As  a rule  they  were  both  in;  sometimes  there  were 
other  visitors.  Heggen  and  Ahlin  were  nearly  always  there. 


JENNY 


67 

Twice  he  found  Miss  Winge  alone,  and  once  Francesca.  They 
were  always  in  Jenny’s  room,  which  was  cosy  and  warm, 
although  the  windows  stood  wide  open  until  the  last  rays  of 
light  had  faded.  The  stove  glowed  and  sparkled,  and  the  kettle 
on  the  spirit-lamp  was  singing.  He  knew  every  article  in  the 
room  now  — the  drawings  and  photographs  on  the  walls,  the 
flower  vases,  the  blue  tea-set,  the  bookshelf  by  the  bed,  and  the 
easel  with  Francesca’s  portrait.  The  room  was  always  a little 
untidy;  the  table  by  the  window  was  littered  with  tubes  and 
paint-boxes,  sketch-books  and  sheets  of  drawing-paper;  Jenny 
kicked  brushes  and  painting  rags  under  it  as  she  was  laying 
the  tea.  There  was  often  a litter  of  needlework  or  half-darned 
stockings  on  the  sofa  to  be  put  away  before  sitting  down  to 
butter  the  biscuits.  A spirit-lamp  and  toilet  trifles  were  fre- 
quently left  lying  about  and  had  to  be  removed. 

While  these  preparations  were  going  on,  Gram  would  sit  by 
the  stove  and  talk  to  Francesca,  but  sometimes  Cesca  would 
take  it  into  her  head  to  be  domesticated  and  let  Jenny  be  lazy. 
Jenny  begged  to  be  spared,  but  Cesca  hustled  about  like  a 
whirlwind,  putting  all  the  stray  articles  where  Jenny  could  not 
find  them  afterwards,  and  ended  up  by  putting  drawing-pins 
into  pictures  that  would  not  hang  straight,  or  curled  themselves 
on  the  wall,  using  her  shoe  as  a hammer. 

Gram  could  not  understand  Miss  Jahrman  at  all.  She  was 
always  nice  and  friendly  to  him,  but  never  as  intimate  and 
confidential  as  on  the  day  they  had  walked  to  Ponte  Molle. 
Sometimes  she  was  strangely  absent;  she  seemed  not  to  grasp 
what  he  said,  although  she  answered  kindly  enough.  Once  or 
twice  he  thought  he  bored  her.  If  he  asked  how  she  was,  she 
hardly  answered,  and  when  he  mentioned  her  picture  with  the 
cypresses  she  said  sweetly:  “You  must  not  be  offended,  Mr. 

Gram,  but  I don’t  care  to  speak  of  my  work  before  it  is  finished. 
Not  now  anyway.” 

He  noticed  that  Ahlin  did  not  like  him,  and  this  egged  him 


68 


JENNY 


on.  The  Swede,  then,  considered  him  a rival?  He  was  under 
the  impression  that  Francesca  had  of  late  been  less  friendly 
with  Ahlin. 

When  he  was  by  himself  Helge  turned  over  in  his  mind  what 
he  was  going  to  say  to  Francesca  — in  his  imagination  he  held 
long  conversations  with  her.  He  longed  for  a talk  like  the 
one  they  had  that  day  at  Ponte  Molle;  he  wanted  to  tell  her  all 
about  himself,  but  when  he  saw  her  he  felt  nervous  and  awk- 
ward. He  did  not  know  how  to  lead  the  conversation  on  to 
what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  he  was  afraid  of  being  pressing 
or  tactless;  afraid  to  do  anything  that  made  her  like  him  less. 
She  noticed  his  embarrassment,  and  came  to  the  rescue  with 
chatter  and  laughter,  and  made  it  easy  for  him  to  joke  and 
laugh  with  her.  He  was  grateful  for  the  moment;  she  filled 
the  pauses  with  small  talk  and  helped  him  along  when  he  made 
a start,  but  when  he  came  home  and  thought  it  all  over,  he  was 
disappointed.  Their  conversation  had  again  been  about  all 
sorts  of  amusing  trifles,  nothing  more. 

When  he  was  alone  with  Jenny  Winge  they  always  talked 
seriously  — about  solid  things,  so  to  speak.  Sometimes  he  was 
slightly  bored  with  these  discussions  on  abstract  matters,  but 
more  often  he  liked  to  talk  to  her,  because  the  conversation 
frequently  turned  from  general  matters  to  things  concerning 
himself.  Gradually  he  got  into  the  way  of  telling  her  a great 
deal  about  himself  — about  his  work,  the  difficulties  he  en- 
countered in  life  and  those  in  himself.  He  noticed  that  Jenny 
avoided  talking  about  Francesca  Jahrman  with  him,  but  not 
that  she  scarcely  ever  talked  about  herself. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  reason  why  he  could  not 
talk  to  Francesca  as  he  talked  to  Jenny  was  that  he  wanted  to 
appear  far  more  important,  confident,  and  strong  to  her  than 
he  really  believed  himself  to  be. 

On  Christmas  Eve  they  all  went  to  the  club,  and  afterwards 
to  the  midnight  mass  at  S.  Luigi  de  Franchesi.  Helge  found  it 


JENNY 


69 

very  impressive.  The  church  was  in  semi-darkness,  in  spite 
of  the  lighted  chandeliers ; they  hung  so  high  that  their  blaze  of 
light  was  lost.  The  altar  was  one  solitary  wall  of  light  from 
the  flashing  golden  flames  of  hundreds  of  wax  candles,  and  the 
subdued  sound  of  the  organ  and  the  singing  of  the  choir  floated 
through  the  church.  He  sat  beside  a lovely  young  Italian 
woman,  who  took  a rosary  of  lapis  lazuli  from  a velvet  case 
and  prayed  fervently.  Gradually  Francesca  began  to  mutter 
more  and  more  audibly.  She  was  sitting  beside  Jenny  in 
front  of  him. 

“ Let’s  go,  Jenny.  You  don’t  think  this  gives  you  any  sort 
of  real  Christmas  feeling,  do  you?  It’s  like  an  ordinary  con- 
cert, and  a bad  one  at  that.  Listen  to  that  man  singing  now 
— absolutely  no  expression.  His  voice  is  absolutely  done. 
Ugh!  ” 

“ Hush,  Cesca!  Remember  you  are  in  church.” 

“ Church ! It’s  a concert,  I tell  you  — didn’t  we  have  to  get 
tickets  and  a program?  I can’t  stand  it.  I shall  lose  my 
temper  soon.” 

“ We’ll  go  after  this  if  you  like,  but  do  keep  quiet  while  we 
are  here.” 

“ New  Year’s  night  last  year  was  quite  different,”  said  Fran- 
cesca. “ I went  to  Gesu.  They  had  the  Te  Deum;  it  was  very 
beautiful.  I knelt  beside  an  old  peasant  from  the  Campagna 
and  a young  girl;  she  looked  ill  — but  oh,  so  pretty!  Every- 
body sang;  the  old  man  knew  the  whole  Te  Deum  by  heart. 
It  was  very  solemn.” 

As  they  made  their  way  slowly  down  the  crowded  aisle,  the 
Ave  Maria  sounded  through  the  church. 

“ Ave  Maria.”  Francesca  sniffed.  “ Can’t  you  hear  how 
indifferent  she  is  to  what  she  sings  — exactly  like  a 
gramophone?  I cannot  bear  to  hear  that  kind  of  music 
ill-treated.” 

“ Ave  Maria,”  said  a Dane  walking  beside  her — “ I remem- 


70  JENNY 

ber  how  beautifully  it  was  sung  by  a young  Norwegian  lady  — 
a Miss  Eck.” 

“Berit  Eck.  Do  you  know  her,  Mr.  Hjerrild?” 

“ She  was  in  Copenhagen  two  years  ago  studying  under  Ellen 
Beck.  I knew  her  quite  well.  Do  you  know  her?  ” 

“ My  sister  knew  her,”  said  Francesca.  “ I think  you  met 
my  sister  Borghild  in  Berlin.  Do  you  like  Miss  Eck  — or  Mrs. 
Hermann  as  she  is  now?  ” 

“ She  was  a very  nice  girl  — and  good-looking.  Extraordi- 
narily gifted,  too,  I think.” 

Francesca  and  Hjerrild  lagged  behind. 

Heggen,  Ahlin,  and  Gram  were  to  accompany  the  ladies 
home  and  have  supper.  Francesca  had  got  a big  parcel  from 
home,  and  the  table  was  laid  with  Norwegian  Christmas  fare, 
decorated  with  daisies  from  the  Campagna  and  candles  in 
seven-branched  candlesticks. 

Francesca  came  in  last  and  brought  the  Dane  with  her. 

“Wasn’t  it  nice,  Jenny,  of  Mr.  Hjerrild  to  come  too?  ” 

There  were  butter  and  cheese,  cold  game  and  brawn  and  ham 
on  the  table,  as  well  as  drinks  for  the  men.  Francesca  sat  by 
Hjerrild,  and  when  the  conversation  became  more  animated 
and  general  she  turned  to  speak  to  him. 

“ Do  you  know  the  pianist,  Mr.  Hermann,  who  married  Miss 
Eck?” 

“ Yes;  I know  him  very  well.  I lived  at  the  same  boarding- 
house with  him  in  Copenhagen,  and  I saw  him  in  Berlin  on  my 
way  here.” 

“ What  do  you  think  of  him  ? ” 

“ He  is  a handsome  fellow,  tremendously  talented.  He  gave 
me  some  of  his  . latest  compositions  — very  original,  I call  them. 
I like  him  very  much.” 

“Have  you  got  them  here?  May  I have  a look  at  them? 
I should  like  to  try  them  on  the  piano  at  the  club.  I knew  him 
years  ago,”  said  Francesca. 


JENNY  71 

“ Oh  yes.  I remember  now,  he  has  a photo  of  you.  He 
would  not  say  who  it  was.” 

Heggen’s  attention  was  drawn  to  their  conversation. 

“ Yes,”  said  Francesca  inaudibly;  “ I think  I gave  him  a 
photo  once.” 

“ All  the  same,  he  is  too  much  of  a bully  for  me,”  said  Hjer- 
rild,  “ unpardonably  rude,  but  perhaps  that  is  why  he  is  ir- 
resistible to  women.  Rather  too  plebeian  for  my  taste.” 

“ That  was  exactly  what  . . .” — she  searched  for  the  right 
words  — “ what  I admired  in  him  was  that  he  had  made  his 
way  from  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  to  where  he  now  stands  — 
such  a struggle  must  necessarily  make  one  brutal,  it  seems  to 
me.  Don’t  you  think  that  a great  deal  — almost  anything  — 
can  be  excused  from  that  point  of  view?  ” 

“ Nonsense,  Cesca,”  said  Heggen  suddenly.  “ Hans  Her- 
mann was  discovered  when  he  was  thirteen,  and  has  been  helped 
along  ever  since.” 

“ Yes,  but  to  have  to  accept  help  always,  to  have  to  thank 
other  people  for  everything  and  always  be  afraid  of  being 
ignored,  neglected,  reminded  of  being  — as  Hjerrild  just  said 
— of  plebeian  origin.” 

“ I might  say  the  same  about  myself  — the  last,  I mean.” 

“ No,  you  cannot,  Gunnar.  I’m  sure  you  have  always  been 
superior  to  your  surroundings.  When  you  came  among  people 
of  higher  social  standing  than  the  one  you  were  bom  to,  you 
were  superior  even  there.  You  were  cleverer;  you  had 
greater  knowledge  and  a finer  mind.  You  could  always  feel 
strong  in  the  consciousness  of  having  done  it  all  yourself. 
You  were  never  obliged  to  thank  people  that  you  knew  looked 
down  upon  you  because  of  your  low  birth,  who  snobbishly  sup- 
ported a talent  which  they  did  not  understand,  and  who  were 
inferior,  though  believing  they  stood  above  you.  You  did  not 
have  to  thank  people  you  could  not  feel  grateful  to.  No,  Gun- 
nar, you  cannot  speak  of  the  feelings  of  a man  of  the  people, 


JENNY 


72 

because  you  have  never  had  them  — you  don’t  know  what  they 
are.” 

“ A man  who  accepts  the  kind  of  help  you  speak  of  from 
people  he  cannot  be  grateful  to  is  decidedly  a plebeian,  it  seems 
to  me.” 

“ Oh,  but  can’t  you  understand  that  one  does  such  a thing 
when  one  knows  one  has  talent  — perhaps  genius  — that  craves 
to  be  developed?  It  seems  to  me  that  you,  who  call  yourself 
a democrat,  should  not  speak  like  that  about  lower-class  in- 
dividuals.” 

“ A man  who  respects  his  talent  does  not  want  to  see  it 
prostituted.  As  to  being  a democrat  — social  democracy  is  the 
craving  for  justice,  and  justice  claims  that  men  of  his  type 
should  be  subjugated,  pressed  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
community,  chained  and  forgotten.  The  real,  legitimate  lower 
class  must  be  thoroughly  subdued.” 

“ A most  peculiar  socialism,”  laughed  Hjerrild. 

“ There  is  no  other  for  grown-up  people.  I don’t  take  into 
account  those  blue-eyed,  childish  souls  who  believe  that  every- 
body is  good  and  that  all  evil  is  the  fault  of  the  community7. 
If  every  one  were  good,  the  community  would  be  a paradise,  but 
the  vulgar  souls  spoil  it.  You  find  them  in  every7  grade  of  life. 
If  they  are  masters,  they  are  cruel  and  brutal;  if  they  are  serv- 
ants, they  are  servile  and  cringing  — and  stupid.  I have 
found  them  among  the  socialists  too,  for  that  matter  — well, 
Hermann  calls  himself  a socialist.  If  they  find  hands  stretched 
out  to  lift  them  up,  they  grasp  them  — and  stamp  on  them 
afterwards.  If  they  see  a troop  marching  past,  they  join  it  to 
get  part  of  the  booty,  but  loyalty  and  fellowship  they  have  none. 
They  laugh  secretly  at  the  aim,  the  ideal,  and  they  hate  justice, 
for  they  know  that  if  it  w7ere  to  prevail  they  would  come  off 
badly. 

“ All  those  who  are  afraid  of  justice  I call  legitimately  lower- 


JENNY 


73 

class,  and  they  should  be  fought  without  mercy.  If  they  have 
any  power  with  the  poor  and  weak,  they  frighten  and  tyrannize 
them  till  they  too  become  the  same.  If  they  are  poor  and  weak 
themselves,  they  give  up  the  struggle,  and  make  their  way  by 
begging  and  flattering  — or  plundering  if  they  have  an  oppor- 
tunity. 

“No,  the  ideal  is  a community  governed  by  upper-class  in- 
dividuals, for  they  never  fight  for  themselves;  they  know  their 
own  endless  resources,  and  they  give  with  open  hands  to  those 
who  are  poorer.  They  endeavour  to  bring  light  and  air  to 
every  possibility  for  good  and  beauty  in  the  inferior  souls  — 
those  who  are  neither  this  nor  that;  good  when  they  can  afford 
it,  bad  when  the  proletariat  forces  them  to  be  so.  The  power 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  those  who  feel  the  responsibility  for 
every  good  impulse  that  is  killed.” 

“ You  are  wrong  about  Hans  Hermann,”  said  Cesca  quietly. 
“ It  was  not  for  his  own  sake  alone  that  he  rebelled  against 
social  injustice.  He,  too,  spoke  of  the  good  impulses  that  were 
wasted.  When  we  walked  about  it  the  east  end  and  saw  the 
pale  little  children,  he  said  he  would  like  to  set  fire  to  the  ugly, 
sad,  crowded  barracks  where  they  lived.” 

“ Mere  talk.  If  the  rent  had  been  paid  to  him.  ...” 

“ For  shame,  Gunnar!  ” said  Cesca  impetuously. 

“ All  the  same  he  would  not  have  been  a socialist  if  he  had 
been  born  rich  — but  still  a true  proletarian.” 

“ Are  you  sure  you  would  have  been  a socialist  yourself,” 
said  Cesca,  “ if  you  had  been  born  a count,  for  instance?  ” 

“ Mr.  Heggen  is  a count,”  said  Hjerrild,  laughing,  “ of  many 
airy  castles.” 

Heggen  sat  silent  for  a minute.  “ I have  never  felt  I was 
born  poor,”  he  said,  speaking  as  if  to  himself. 

“ As  to  Hermann’s  love  for  children,”  said  Hjerrild,  “ there 
was  not  much  of  it  for  his  own  child.  And  the  wav  he  treated 


JENNY 


74 

his  wife  was  disgraceful.  He  begged  and  pleaded  till  he  got 
her,  but  when  she  was  going  to  have  the  baby,  she  had  to  beg 
and  implore  him  to  marry  her.” 

“ Have  they  got  a little  boy?  ” whispered  Francesca. 

“ Yes;  he  arrived  after  they  had  been  married  six  weeks, 
just  the  day  I left  Berlin.  When  they  had  been  married  a 
month  Hermann  left  her  and  went  to  Dresden.  I don’t  see  why 
they  did  not  marry  before,  as  they  had  agreed  to  divorce  any- 
how. She  wanted  it.” 

“ How  disgraceful,”  said  Jenny,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  conversation.  “To  marry  with  the  intention  to  divorce!  ” 

“ Well,”  said  Hjerrild,  smiling.  “ When  people  know  each 
other  in  and  out,  and  know  they  cannot  get  on,  what  else  is 
there  to  do?  ” 

“ Not  marry  at  all,  of  course.” 

“ Naturally.  Free  love  is  much  better,  but  she  had  to  marry. 
She  is  going  to  give  concerts  in  Christiania  in  the  autumn  and 
try  to  get  pupils.  She  could  not  do  it,  having  the  child,  unless 
she  had  been  married.” 

“ Perhaps  not,  but  it  is  hateful  all  the  same.  I have  no 
sympathy  with  free  love,  if  it  means  that  people  should  take 
up  with  each  other  although  they  presume  they  will  tire  of  one 
another.  It  seems  to  me  that  even  to  break  an  ordinary  platonic 
engagement  is  a slight  stain  on  the  one  who  breaks  it.  But  if 
one  has  been  unfortunate  enough  to  make  a mistake,  and  then 
goes  through  the  marriage  ceremony  for  the  sake  of  what  peo- 
ple say,  it  is  a blasphemy  to  stand  there  and  make  a promise 
that  one  has  agreed  beforehand  not  to  keep.” 

By  dawn  the  visitors  left.  Heggen  stayed  a second  after  the 
others  had  gone.  Jenny  opened  the  balcony  doors  to  let  out 
the  smoke.  The  sky  was  grey,  with  a pale,  reddish  light  ap- 
pearing above  the  housetops.  Heggen  went  up  to  her: 

“ Thanks  so  much.  We’ve  had  a pleasant  Christmas.  What 
are  you  thinking  of?  ” 


JENNY 


75 


“ That  it  is  Christmas  morning.  I wonder  if  they  got  my 
parcel  at  home  in  time.” 

“ I daresay  they  did.  You  sent  it  on  the  eleventh,  didn’t 
you  ? ” 

“ I did.  It  was  always  so  nice  on  Christmas  morning  to  go 
in  and  look  at  the  tree  and  the  presents  in  daylight  — but  I 
was  young  then,”  she  added,  smiling.  “ They  say  there’s  been 
lots  of  snow  this  winter.  I suppose  the  children  are  tobaggan- 
ing  in  the  mountains  today.” 

“ Yes,  probably,”  said  Heggen.  “ You  are  getting  cold. 
Good-night,  and  thanks  again.” 

“ Good-night,  and  a happy  Christmas  to  you,  Gunnar.” 

They  shook  hands.  She  stayed  by  the  window  a little  while 
after  he  had  gone. 


NE  day  during  Christmas  week  Gram  went  into  a 


overcoat,  he  heard  Heggen  say: 

“ I don’t  like  that  man.” 

“ No;  he  is  disgusting,”  said  Jenny,  sighing. 

“ It  is  not  good  for  her  either  — with  this  sirocco  blowing 
She  will  be  a rag  tomorrow.  I suppose  she  does  not  work  at 
all  — only  walks  about  with  that  fellow?” 

“Work,  no!  But  I can  do  nothing.  She  walks  from  here 
to  Viterbo  with  him  in  those  thin  slippers  of  hers,  in  spite  of 
the  cold  and  the  sirocco  — only  because  the  man  can  tell  her 
about  Hans  Hermann.” 

Gram  greeted  them  as  he  passed.  They  made  a movement 
as  if  inviting  him  to  sit  at  their  table,  but  he  pretended  not  to 
see,  and  sat  down  farther  up  the  room  with  his  back  to  them. 
He  understood  that  they  were  speaking  about  Francesca. 


VII 


trattoria.  Heggen  and  Jenny  were  sitting  at  a table, 
but  they  did  not  see  him.  As  he  was  taking  off  his 


76 


JENNY 


He  was  almost  a daily  visitor  now  at  the  Via  Vantaggio;  he 
could  not  help  it.  Miss  Winge  was  always  alone,  reading  or 
sewing,  and  seemed  pleased  to  see  him.  He  thought  she  had 
changed  a little  of  late;  she  was  not  so  determined  or  so  ready 
with  her  opinions  as  she  used  to  be;  not  so  inclined  to  argue 
and  to  lay  down  the  law.  She  seemed  almost  a little  sad.  He 
asked  her  once  if  she  were  not  quite  well. 

“ Yes,  I am  very  well,  thank  you.  Why  do  you  ask?  ” 

“ I don’t  know  — you  seem  so  quiet  nowadays.” 

She  had  lighted  the  lamp  meanwhile,  and  he  noticed  that 
she  blushed. 

“ I may  have  to  go  home  soon.  My  sister  is  ill  with  pneu- 
monia, and  my  mother  is  so  upset  about  it.  I am  very  sorry  to 
go,”  she  added  after  a pause.  “ I should  have  liked  to  stay 
for  the  spring  at  least.” 

She  sat  down  to  her  needlework.  He  wondered  in  his  mind 
if  it  was  Heggen  — he  had  never  been  able  to  find  out  if  there 
was  an  understanding  between  them.  For  the  present,  Heggen, 
who  was  said  to  be  rather  impressionable  generally,  was  very 
much  attached  to  a young  Danish  nurse  staying  in  Rome  with 
an  elderly  lady.  It  seemed  so  strange  that  she  should  blush ; it 
was  not  like  her. 

Francesca  came  in  that  evening  before  he  left.  He  had  not 
seen  her  much  since  Christmas  Eve,  but  enough  to  understand 
that  he  was  quite  indifferent  to  her.  She  was  never  in  a temper, 
or  childishly  impetuous;  she  went  about  as  if  she  did  not  see 
anybody,  her  mind  completely  absorbed  by  something  or  other. 
At  times  she  seemed  almost  to  walk  in  a trance. 

He  saw  a great  deal  of  Jenny;  he  went  to  the  trattoria  where 
she  used  to  have  her  meals,  and  also  to  her  rooms.  He  scarcely 
knew  why,  but  he  felt  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

One  afternoon  Jenny  went  into  Francesca’s  room  to  look  for 
some  turpentine.  Francesca  always  took  whatever  she  needed 
from  Jenny’s  belongings,  but  she  never  put  the  things  back. 


JENNY 


77 

Cesca  was  lying  on  the  bed  sobbing,  with  her  head  deep  in  the 
pillow.  Jenny  had  not  heard  her  come  in. 

“ My  dear,  what  is  the  matter  ? Are  you  ill  ? ” 

“No,  but  please  go  away,  Jenny,  do!  I won’t  tell  you; 
you’ll  only  say  it’s  my  own  fault.” 

Jenny  understood  it  was  no  good  talking  to  her  when  she  was 
in  that  state,  but  at  tea-time  she  knocked  at  her  door.  Cesca 
thanked  her,  but  did  not  want  any  tea. 

That  night,  when  Jenny  was  reading  in  bed,  Cesca  suddenly 
came  into  the  room  in  her  nightdress.  Her  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen  with  crying. 

“ May  I sleep  with  you  tonight?  I don’t  want  to  be  alone.” 

Jenny  made  room  for  her.  She  did  not  like  the  idea  of  shar- 
ing her  bed,  but  Cesca  used  to  come  when  she  was  very  unhappy 
and  ask  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  with  her. 

“ Go  on  reading,  Jenny;  I won’t  disturb  you.  I shall  lie 
very  still  here  by  the  wall.” 

Jenny  pretended  to  read  for  some  time.  Now  and  then  a 
sigh  like  a sob  was  heard  from  Francesca. 

“ Shall  I put  out  the  lamp,  or  would  you  like  it  burning?  ” 
Jenny  asked. 

“ No,  put  it  out,  please.” 

In  the  dark  she  put  her  arm  round  Jenny  and  told  her,  sob- 
bing, that  she  had  been  to  the  Campagna  again  with  Hjerrild, 
and  he  had  kissed  her.  At  first  she  had  just  scolded  him  a 
little,  thinking  it  was  only  fun,  but  he  soon  became  so  disgust- 
ing that  she  got  angry.  “ And  he  wanted  me  to  go  and  stay 
at  an  hotel  with  him  tonight.  He  said  it  exactly  as  he  would 
have  asked  me  to  go  to  a confectioner’s  with  him.  I was 
furious,  and  he  got  very  angry  and  said  some  nasty,  horrid 
things.”  She  shivered  as  in  a fever.  “ He  spoke  about  Hans 
— he  said  that  Hans,  when  he  showed  him  my  picture,  had 
spoken  to  him  about  me  in  such  a way  as  to  make  Hjerrild 
believe  — you  know  what  I mean  ? ” She  nestled  close  to 


JENNY 


78 

Jenny.  “Can  you  understand  it — for  I don’t  — that  I still 
care  for  that  cad  of  a man?  Hans  had  not  mentioned  my 
name,  though,  and  he  did  not  imagine,  of  course,  that  Hjerrild 
would  meet  me  or  know  me  from  the  photograph;  it  was  taken 
when  I was  eighteen.” 

Jenny’s  birthday  was  on  the  seventeenth  of  January.  She  and 
Francesca  were  having  a dinner-party  in  the  Campagna,  in  a 
small  osteria  in  the  Via  Appia  Nuova.  Ahlin,  Heggen,  Gram, 
and  Miss  Palm,  the  Danish  nurse,  made  up  the  party. 

From  the  tram  terminus  they  walked  two  and  two  along  the 
sunny,  white  road.  Spring  was  in  the  air,  the  brown  Campagna 
had  a greyish-green  tinge;  the  daisies,  which  had  been  blos- 
soming more  or  less  all  the  winter,  began  to  spread  all  over  in 
silvery  spots,  and  the  impatient  clusters  of  tender  green  shoots 
on  the  elder  bushes  along  the  fences  had  grown. 

The  larks  hung  trembling  high  up  in  the  blue-white  sky, 
and  there  was  a haze  over  the  city  and  the  ugly,  red  blocks  of 
houses  it  had  sprinkled  over  the  plain.  Beyond  the  massive 
arches  of  the  canal,  the  Alban  mountains,  with  small  white 
villages,  showed  faintly  through  the  mist. 

Jenny  walked  in  front  with  Gram,  who  carried  her  grey  dust- 
coat.  She  was  radiantly  beautiful  in  a black  silk  dress;  he  had 
never  seen  her  in  anything  but  her  grey  dress  or  coat  and  skirt. 
It  seemed  to  him  almost  as  if  he  walked  with  a new  and  strange 
woman.  Her  waist  was  so  small  in  the  shiny  black  material 
that  her  form  above  it  seemed  round  and  supple;  the  bodice 
was  cut  open  in  a deep  square  in  front,  and  her  hair  and  skin 
were  dazzlingly  fair.  She  wore  a big  black  hat,  in  which  he 
had  seen  her  before,  but  without  specially  noticing  it.  Even 
her  pink  beads  looked  quite  different  with  the  black  dress. 

They  ate  out  of  doors  in  the  sunshine  under  the  vine,  which 
threw  a shadow  in  the  form  of  a fine  bluish  net  over 
the  tablecloth.  Miss  Palm  and  Heggen  wanted  to  decorate 


JENNY 


79 

the  table  with  daisies;  the  macaroni  was  quite  ready,  but  the 
others  had  to  wait  until  they  came  back  with  the  decorations. 
The  food  was  good  and  the  wine  was  excellent;  Cesca  had 
brought  fruit,  and  coffee,  which  she  was  going  to  make  herself, 
to  make  sure  it  should  be  good.  After  dinner  Miss  Palm  and 
Heggen  investigated  marble  reliefs  and  inscriptions  that  had 
been  found  on  the  site  and  fitted  into  the  masonry  of  the  house. 
After  a while  they  disappeared  round  a comer.  Ahlin  re- 
mained sitting  at  the  table  smoking,  his  eyes  half  shut  against 
the  glare. 

The  osteria  lay  at  the  foot  of  a small  hill.  Gram  and  Jenny 
walked  up  the  slope  at  random.  She  picked  small  wild  flowers 
that  grew  in  the  yellow  earth. 

“ There  are  masses  of  these  at  Monte  Testaccio.  Have  you 
been  there,  Mr.  Gram?  ” 

“ Yes,  several  times.  I went  there  yesterday  to  have  a look 
at  the  Protestant  cemetery.  The  camelia  trees  are  covered  with 
blossoms,  and  in  the  old  part  I found  anemones  in  the  grass.” 

“ Yes,  they  are  out  now.  Somewhere  at  Via  Cassia,  beyond 
Ponte  Molle,  there  are  lots  of  them.  Gunnar  gave  me  some 
almond  blossoms  this  morning;  they  have  them  already  at  the 
Spanish  stairs,  but  I daresay  they  are  forced.” 

They  reached  the  top  and  began  strolling  about.  Jenny 
walked  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground;  the  short  grass  was  spring- 
ing up  everywhere,  and  variegated  thistle-leaves  and  some  big, 
silver-grey  ones  were  basking  in  the  sun.  They  walked  to- 
wards a solitary  wall,  which  rose  out  of  a mound  of  gravel;  the 
Campagna  extended  around  them  in  every  direction,  grey-green 
below  the  light  spring  skies  and  the  warbling  larks.  Its  bound- 
aries were  lost  in  the  haze  of  the  sun.  The  city  beyond  them 
seemed  a mirage  only,  the  mountains  and  the  clouds  melted  to- 
gether, and  the  yellow  arches  of  the  canal  appeared,  only  to 
vanish  again  in  the  mist.  The  countless  ruins  were  reduced 


8o 


JENNY 


to  small,  glistening  pieces  of  walls,  strewn  about  on  the  green, 
and  pines  and  eucalyptus  trees  by  the  red  or  ochre  houses  stood 
solitary  and  dark  on  this  fine  day  of  early  spring. 

“ Do  you  remember  the  first  morning  I was  here,  Miss  Winge? 
I imagined  I was  disappointed,  and  I believed  it  to  be  because 
I had  longed  so  much  and  dreamt  so  much  that  everything  I 
was  going  to  see  would  be  colourless  and  poor,  compared  to  my 
dreams.  Have  you  noticed  how  on  a summer  day,  when  you 
lie  in  the  sun  with  your  eyes  closed,  all  colours  seem  grey  and 
faded  when  you  first  open  them?  It  is  because  the  eyes  are 
weakened  by  not  being  used  and  cannot  at  once  grasp  the  com- 
plexity of  the  colours  as  they  really  are;  the  first  impression  is 
incomplete  and  poor.  Do  you  understand  what  I mean?  ” 

Jenny  nodded. 

“ It  was  my  case  in  the  beginning  here.  I was  overwhelmed 
by  Rome.  Then  I saw  you  passing  by,  tall  and  fair  and  a 
stranger.  I did  not  pay  any  attention  to  Francesca  then  — 
not  till  we  were  in  the  tavern.  When  I sat  there  with  you, 
who  were  all  strange  to  me  — it  was  really  the  first  time  such 
a thing  happened  to  me.  Up  till  then  my  association  with 
strangers  had  been  only  an  occasional  meeting  on  my  way  be- 
tween school  and  home.  I was  confused;  it  seemed  impossible 
to  speak  to  people.  I almost  longed  for  home  and  all  it  meant 
— and  I longed  for  Rome  as  I knew  it  from  hearsay  and  from 
pictures.  I thought  I could  not  settle  down  to  anything  but 
look  at  pictures  made  by  others  — read  books  other  men  had 
written  — made  the  best  use  of  the  work  of  others  and  live  in 
a world  of  fiction.  I felt  desperately  lonely  among  you.  You 
once  said  something  about  being  lonely;  I understand  now  what 
you  meant. 

“ Do  you  see  that  tower  over  there?  I went  there  yesterday. 
It  is  the  remnant  of  a fortress  from  the  Middle  Ages,  from 
feudal  times.  There  are  a good  many  of  them  in  the  city  and 
round  about.  You  see  sometimes  an  almost  windowless  wall 


JENNY  81 

built  in  between  the  houses  in  a street.  It  is  a bit  of  the  Rome 
of  the  robber  barons.  We  know  comparatively  little  about  that 
time,  but  I am  very  interested  in  it  at  present.  I find  in  the 
records  names  of  dead  people,  of  whom  sometimes  nothing  is 
known  but  their  names,  and  I long  to  know  more  about  them. 
I dream  of  Rome  in  the  Middle  Ages,  when  they  fought  in  the 
street  with  fierce  cries,  and  the  town  was  full  of  robber-castles, 
where  their  womenfolk  were  shut  up  — daughters  of  those  wild 
beasts  and  with  their  blood  in  their  veins.  Sometimes  they 
broke  away  from  their  prison  and  mixed  in  the  life,  such  as  it 
was,  inside  the  red-black  walls.  We  know  so  little  about  those 
times,  and  the  German  professors  do  not  take  great  interest  in 
them,  because  they  cannot  be  remade  so  as  to  convey  abstract 
ideas;  they  are  simply  naked  facts. 

“ What  a mighty  current  of  life  has  washed  over  this  country! 
— breaking  into  billows  round  every  spot  with  town  and  castle 
on  it.  And  yet  the  mountains  rise  above  it  bare  and  desolate. 
Think  of  the  endless  number  of  ruins  here  in  the  Campagna 
only;  of  the  stacks  of  books  written  on  the  history  of  Italy  — 
and  on  the  history  of  the  whole  world  for  that  matter  — and 
think  of  the  hosts  of  dead  people  we  know.  Yet  the  result  of 
all  these  waves  of  life,  rolling  one  after  the  other,  is  very,  very 
small.  It  is  all  so  wonderful! 

“ I have  talked  to  you  so  often  and  you  have  talked  to  me; 
yet  I don’t  really  know  you.  You  are  just  as  much  a mystery 
to  me  as  that  tower. — I wish  you  could  see  how  your  hair  shines 
where  you  are  standing  now.  It  is  glorious. 

“ Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  you  have  never  seen  your  face? 
Only  the  reflection  of  it  in  the  glass.  We  can  never  see  what 
our  face  looks  like  when  we  sleep  or  shut  our  eyes  — isn’t  it 
odd?  It  was  my  birthday  the  day  I met  you;  today  it  is  yours. 
Are  you  glad  to  be  twenty-eight,  you  who  think  that  every  year 
completed  is  a gain?  ” 

“ I did  not  say  that.  I said  that  you  may  have  had  so  much 


82  JENNY 

to  go  through  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  your  life  that  you 
are  glad  they  are  over.” 

“ And  now?  ” 

“Now.  . . 

“ Yes;  do  you  know  exactly  what  you  want  to  attain  during 
the  next  year  — what  use  you  are  going  to  make  of  it?  Life 
seems  to  me  so  overwhelmingly  rich  in  possibilities  that  even 
you,  with  all  your  strength,  cannot  avail  yourself  of  them. 
Does  it  ever  occur  to  you,  and  does  it  make  you  sad,  Jenny?  ” 

She  only  smiled  in  answer,  and  looked  down.  She  threw  the 
end  of  her  cigarette  on  the  ground  and  put  her  foot  on  it;  her 
white  ankle  showed  through  the  thin  black  stocking.  She  fol- 
lowed with  her  eyes  a pack  of  sheep  running  down  the  opposite 
slope. 

“ We  are  forgetting  the  coffee,  Mr.  Gram  — I am  sure  they 
are  waiting  for  us.” 

They  returned  to  the  osteria  in  silence;  on  the  slope,  which 
stretched  right  down  to  where  they  had  been  lunching,  they 
noticed  that  Ahlin  was  lying  forward  over  the  table,  his  head 
on  his  arms.  Francesca  in  her  bright  green  gown  bent  over 
him,  her  arms  round  his  neck,  trying  to  lift  his  head. 

“Oh,  don’t,  Lennart!  Don’t  cry.  I will  love  you.  I will 
marry  you  — do  you  hear?  — but  you  must  not  cry  like  that. 
I will  marry  you,  and  I think  I can  be  fond  of  you,  only  don’t 
be  so  miserable.” 

Ahlin  sobbed:  “No,  no  — not  if  you  don’t  love  me,  Cesca; 

I don’t  want  you  to.  . . .” 

Jenny  turned  and  went  back  along  the  slope.  Gram  noticed 
that  she  flushed  a deep  red  down  to  her  neck.  A path  took 
them  down  by  the  other  side  of  the  house  into  the  orchard. 
Heggen  and  Miss  Palm  were  chasing  each  other  round  the  little 
fountain,  splashing  each  other  with  water.  Miss  Palm  shrieked 
with  laughter.  Helge  saw  the  colour  again  mount  to  Jenny’s 


JENNY  83 

face  and  neck  as  he  walked  behind  her  between  the  vegetable 
beds.  Heggen  and  Miss  Palm  had  made  peace. 

“The  same  old  round,”  said  Helge;  “take  your  partners.” 

Jenny  nodded,  with  the  shadow  of  a smile. 

The  atmosphere  at  the  coffee-table  was  somewhat  strained. 
Miss  Palm  alone  was  in  good  spirits.  Francesca  tried  to  make 
conversation  while  they  were  sipping  their  liqueurs,  and,  as 
soon  as  she  decently  could,  proposed  that  they  should  go  for  a 
walk. 

The  three  couples  made  for  the  Campagna,  the  distance  be- 
tween them  increasing,  until  they  lost  sight  of  one  another  alto- 
gether among  the  hills.  Jenny  walked  with  Gram. 

“ Where  are  we  going  really  ? ” she  said. 

“ W’e  might  go  to  the  Egeria  grotto,  for  instance.” 

The  grotto  lay  in  quite  an  opposite  direction  to  the  one 
chosen  by  the  others.  They  started  to  walk  across  the  scorched 
slopes  to  the  Bosco  Sacro,  where  the  ancient  cork  trees  stretched 
their  dark  foliage  to  the  burning  sun. 

“ I ought  to  have  put  on  my  hat,”  said  Jenny,  passing  a hand 
over  her  hair.  The  ground  of  the  sacred  grove  was  covered 
with  bits  of  paper  and  other  litter;  on  the  stump  of  a tree  near 
the  edge  two  ladies  were  seated,  doing  crochet  work,  and  some 
little  English  boys  played  hide-and-seek  behind  the  massive 
trunks.  Jenny  and  Gram  turned  out  of  the  grove  and  walked 
down  the  slope  towards  the  ruin. 

“ Is  it  worth  while  going  down?  ” said  Jenny,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  sat  down  on  the  slope. 

“No;  let  us  stay  here,”  and  Helge  lay  down  at  her  feet  on 
the  short,  dry  grass,  took  off  his  hat,  and,  steadying  himself  on 
his  elbow,  looked  up  at  her  in  silence. 

“How  old  is  she?”  he  asked  suddenly.  “I  mean  Cesca.” 

“ Twenty-six.”  She  sat  looking  at  the  view  in  front  of  her. 

“ I am  not  sorry,”  he  said  quietly.  “ You  have  noticed  it,  I 


JENNY 


84 

daresay.  A month  ago  I might  have.  . . . She  was  so  sweet 
to  me  once,  so  kind  and  confidential,  and  I was  not  used  to  that 
kind  of  thing.  I took  it  as  — well,  as  I’invitation  å la  valse, 
you  see,  but  now  ...  I still  think  she  is  sweet,  but  I don’t 
mind  in  the  least  if  she  dances  with  somebody  else.” 

He  was  lying  looking  at  her:  “ I believe  it  is  you,  Jenny, 

I am  in  love  with,”  he  said  suddenly. 

She  turned  half-way  towards  him,  with  a faint  smile,  and 
shook  her  head. 

“ Yes,”  said  Helge  firmly;  “ I think  so.  I don’t  know  for 
certain,  for  I have  never  been  in  love  before  — I know  that  now 
— although  I have  been  engaged  once.”  He  smiled  to  himself. 
“ It  was  one  of  my  blunders  in  the  old  foolish  days. 

“ This,  I am  sure,  is  love.  It  was  you,  Jenny,  I saw  that 
evening  — not  her.  I noticed  you  already  in  the  afternoon 
when  you  crossed  the  Corso.  I stood  there  thinking  that  life 
was  new,  full  of  adventure,  and  just  then  you  passed  me,  fair 
and  slender,  and  stranger.  Later,  when  I had  wandered  about 
in  this  foreign  town,  I met  you  again.  I also  noticed  Cesca, 
of  course,  and  no  wonder  I was  a little  flustered  for  a moment, 
but  it  was  you  I saw  first.  And  now  we  are  sitting  here  to- 
gether — we  two.” 

Her  hand  was  close  to  him  as  she  sat  leaning  on  it ; suddenly 
he  stroked  it  — and  she  drew  it  away. 

“ You  are  not  cross  with  me,  are  you?  It  is  really  nothing 
to  be  cross  about.  Why  should  I not  tell  you  that  I believe  I 
am  in  love  with  you  ? I could  not  resist  touching  your  hand  — 
I wanted  to  feel  that  it  was  real,  for  it  seems  to  me  so  won- 
derful that  you  are  sitting  here.  I do  not  really  know  you, 
though  we  have  talked  about  many  things.  I know  that  you 
are  clever,  level-headed,  and  energetic  — and  good  and  truthful, 
but  I knew  that  the  moment  I saw  you  and  heard  your  voice. 
I don’t  know  any  more  about  you  now,  but  there  is  of  course  a 
great  deal  more  to  learn  — and  perhaps  I shall  never  learn  it. 


JENNY 


85 

But  I can  see  for  myself,  for  instance,  that  your  silk  skirt  is 
glowing  hot,  and  that  if  I laid  my  face  in  your  lap  I should 
burn  myself.” 

She  made  an  involuntary  movement  with  her  hand  across  her 
lap. 

“ It  attracts  the  sun;  there  are  sparks  in  your  hair,  and  the 
sunrays  filter  through  your  eyes.  Your  mouth  is  quite  trans- 
parent; it  looks  like  a raspberry  in  the  sun.” 

She  smiled,  looking  a little  embarrassed. 

“ Will  you  give  me  a kiss?  ” he  said  suddenly. 

” ‘ L’ invitation  å la  valse?’”  She  smiled  lightly. 

“ I don’t  know  — but  you  cannot  be  cross  with  me  because 
I ask  you  for  one  single  little  kiss  — on  a day  like  this.  I am 
only  telling  you  what  I am  longing  for,  and,  after  all,  why 
could  you  not  do  it  ? ” 

She  did  not  move. 

“ Is  there  any  reason  why  not?  — I shall  not  try  to  kiss  you, 
but  I cannot  see  why  you  should  not  bend  down  for  a second 
and  give  me  a tiny  little  kiss  as  you  sit  there  with  the  sun  right 
on  your  lips.  It  is  no  more  to  you  than  when  you  pat  a bam- 
bino on  the  head  and  give  him  a soldo.  It  is  nothing  to  you, 
Jenny,  and  to  me  it  is  all  I wish  for  — just  this  moment  I long 
for  it  so  much,”  he  said,  smiling. 

She  bent  suddenly  down  and  kissed  him.  Only  for  a second 
did  he  feel  her  hair  and  lips  brush  his  cheek,  and  he  saw  the 
movement  of  her  body  under  the  black  silk  as  she  bent  down 
and  rose  again.  Her  face,  he  noticed,  which  was  smiling 
serenely  as  she  kissed  him,  now  looked  embarrassed,  almost 
frightened.  He  did  not  move,  but  lay  still,  musing  contentedly 
in  the  sunshine.  She  became  herself  again. 

“ There,  you  see,”  he  said  at  last  laughingly,  “ your  mouth 
is  exactly  as  before;  the  sun  is  shining  on  your  lips,  right  into 
the  blood.  It  was  nothing  to  you  — and  I am  so  happy.  You 
must  not  believe  that  I want  you  to  think  of  me  — I only  want 


86 


JENNY 


you  to  let  me  think  of  you,  while  you  may  sit  and  think  of 
anything  in  the  world.  Others  may  dance  — to  me  this  is 
much  better  — if  only  I may  look  at  you.” 

They  were  both  silent.  Jenny  sat  with  her  face  turned  away, 
looking  at  the  Campagna  bathing  in  the  sun. 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  osteria,  Helge  chatted  merrily 
about  all  sorts  of  things,  telling  her  about  the  learned  Germans 
he  had  met  in  the  course  of  his  work.  Jenny  stole  a glance 
at  him  now  and  again;  he  used  not  to  be  like  that,  so  free  and 
easy.  He  was  really  handsome  as  he  walked,  looking  straight 
ahead,  and  his  light  brown  eyes  were  radiant  like  amber  in  the 
sun. 

VIII 

JENNY  did  not  light  the  lamp  when  she  got  in,  but,  put- 
ting on  an  evening  cloak  in  the  dark,  she  went  out  to  sit 
on  the  balcony.  The  night  was  cold,  the  skies  stretched 
over  the  roofs  like  black  velvet,  covered  with  glittering  stars. 
He  had  said  when  they  parted : “ I may  come  up  tomorrow  and 

ask  you  to  go  with  me  for  a trip  in  the  Campagna?  ” 

Well,  nothing  had  really  happened  — she  had  merely  given 
him  a kiss,  but  it  was  the  first  kiss  she  had  ever  given  to  a 
man,  and  it  had  not  happened  in  the  way  she  had  expected. 
It  was  almost  a joke  — kissing  him  like  that.  She  was  not  in 
love  with  him,  yet  she  had  kissed  him.  She  had  hesitated  and 
thought:  I have  never  kissed,  and  then  a strange  sensation  of 

indifference  and  soft  languor  stole  over  her.  Why  be  so 
ridiculously  solemn  about  it?  — and  she  did  it  — why  not?  It 
did  not  matter;  he  had  asked  for  it  quite  candidly,  because  he 
thought  he  was  in  love  with  her  and  the  sun  was  bright.  He 
had  not  asked  her  to  love  him,  and  he  had  made  no  further 
advances;  he  had  not  claimed  anything,  only  that  one  little 
kiss,  and  she  had  given  it  without  a word.  It  was  altogether 
beautiful;  she  had  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 


JENNY 


87 

She  was  twenty-eight,  and  she  would  not  deny  to  herself 
that  she  longed  to  love  and  to  be  loved  by  a man,  to  nestle  in 
his  arms,  young,  healthy,  and  good  to  look  upon  as  she  was. 
Her  blood  was  hot  and  she  was  yearning,  but  she  had  eyes  that 
saw  clearly,  and  she  had  never  lied  to  herself.  She  had  met 
men  now  and  then  and  had  asked  herself:  Is  he  the  man?  — 

one  or  two  of  them  she  might  have  loved  if  she  had  tried,  if  she 
could  have  closed  her  eyes  to  the  one  little  thing  that  always 
was  there,  making  her  feel  an  opposition  which  she  had  to 
master.  She  had  not  met  any  one  whom  she  felt  compelled 
to  love,  so  had  not  risked  it.  Cesca  would  let  one  man  after 
another  kiss  and  fondle  her,  and  it  made  no  difference;  it 
merely  grazed  her  lips  and  skin.  Not  even  Hans  Hermann, 
whom  she  loved,  could  warm  her  strangely  thin,  chilly  blood. 

She  herself  was  different;  her  blood  was  red  and  hot,  and  the 
joy  she  coveted  should  be  fiery,  consuming,  but  spotlessly  clean. 
She  would  be  loyal  and  true  to  the  man  to  whom  she  gave  her- 
self, but  he  must  know  how  to  take  her  wholly,  to  possess  her 
body  and  soul,  so  that  not  a single  possibility  in  her  would  be 
wasted  or  left  neglected  in  some  corner  of  her  soul  — to  decay 
and  fester.  No,  she  dared  not,  would  not  be  reckless  — not 
she.  Yet  she  could  understand  those  who  did  not  trouble  their 
heads  about  such  things;  who  did  not  subdue  one  instinct  and 
call  it  bad,  and  give  in  to  another,  calling  it  good,  or  renounce 
all  the  cheap  little  joys  of  life,  saving  up  all  for  the  great  joy 
that  after  all  might  never  come.  She  was  not  so  sure  herself 
that  her  road  led  to  the  goal  — not  sure  enough  not  to  be  im- 
pressed sometimes  by  people  who  quite  cynically  admitted  that 
they  had  no  road,  no  goal,  and  that  to  have  ideals  and  morals 
was  like  trying  to  catch  the  moon  on  the  water. 

Once,  many  years  ago,  a man  had  asked  her  one  night  to 
go  with  him  to  his  rooms,  much  in  the  same  way  as  he  would 
have  offered  to  take  her  out  to  tea.  It  was  no  temptation  to 
her  — she  knew,  besides,  that  her  mother  was  waiting  up  for 


88 


JENNY 


her,  which  made  it  quite  impossible.  She  knew  the  man  very 
slightly,  did  not  like  him,  and  was  cross  because  he  was  to 
see  her  home;  and  it  was  not  because  her  senses  were  stirred, 
but  from  purely  mental  curiosity,  that  she  turned  the  question 
for  a moment  over  in  her  mind:  what  if  she  did?  — what  would 
be  her  feelings  if  she  threw  overboard  will,  self-control,  and 
her  old  faith?  A voluptuously  exciting  shiver  ran  through  her 
at  the  thought.  Was  that  kind  of  life  more  pleasant  than 
her  own?  She  was  not  pleased  with  hers  that  evening;  she 
had  again  sat  watching  those  who  danced,  she  had  tasted  the 
wine  and  had  listened  to  the  music,  and  she  had  felt  the  dread- 
ful loneliness  of  being  young  and  not  knowing  how  to  dance 
or  how  to  speak  the  language  of  the  other  young  people  and 
share  their  laughter,  but  she  had  tried  to  smile  and  look  and 
talk  as  if  she  enjoyed  it.  And  when  she  walked  home  in  the 
icy-cold  spring  night  she  knew  that  at  eight  o’clock  next  morn- 
ing she  had  to  be  at  the  school  to  act  as  substitute  for  one  of 
the  teachers.  She  was  working  that  time  at  her  big  picture, 
but  everything  she  did  seemed  dull  and  meaningless,  and  at  six 
o’clock  she  had  to  go  home  and  teach  mathematics  to  her  private 
pupils.  She  was  very  hard  worked;  she  sometimes  felt  her 
nerves  strained  to  the  utmost,  and  did  not  know  how  she  would 
be  able  to  carry  on  till  the  long  vacation. 

For  an  instant  she  felt  herself  drawn  by  the  man’s  cynicism 
— or  thought  she  was  — but  she  smiled  at  him  and  said  “ no  ” 
in  the  same  dry  and  direct  way  that  he  had  asked  her.  He 
was  a fool,  after  all,  for  he  began  preaching  to  her  — first  com- 
monplace flattery,  then  sentimental  nonsense  about  youth  and 
spring,  the  right  and  freedom  of  passion,  and  the  gospel  of  the 
flesh,  until  she  simply  laughed  at  him  and  hailed  a passing 
cab. 

And  now  — she  was  old  enough  now  to  understand  those  who 
brutally  refused  to  deny  themselves  anything  in  life  — who 
simply  gave  in  and  drifted,  but  the  greenhorns,  who  boasted  of 


JENNY 


89 

having  a mission  to  fill,  when  they  enjoyed  life  after  their 
fashion,  the  champions  of  the  eternal  rights  of  nature,  who  did 
not  trouble  to  brush  their  teeth  or  clean  their  nails  — they  could 
not  impose  on  her. 

She  would  be  true  to  her  own  old  moral  code,  which  aimed 
at  truth  and  self-control,  and  originated  from  the  time  she  was 
sent  to  school.  She  was  not  like  the  other  children;  even  her 
clothes  were  unlike  theirs,  and  her  little  soul  was  very,  very 
different.  She  lived  with  her  mother,  who  had  been  left  a 
widow  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  had  nothing  in  the  world  but 
her  little  daughter.  Her  father  had  died  before  she  was  old 
enough  to  remember  him.  He  was  in  his  grave  and  in  heaven, 
but  in  reality  he  lived  with  them,  for  his  picture  hung  above 
the  piano  and  heard  and  saw  everything  they  said  and  did. 
Her  mother  spoke  of  him  constantly,  telling  her  what  he  thought 
of  everything  and  what  Jenny  might  or  must  not  do  because  of 
father.  Jenny  spoke  of  him  as  if  she  knew  him,  and  at  night, 
in  bed,  she  spoke  to  him,  and  to  God  as  one  who  was  always 
with  father  and  agreed  with  him  about  everything. 

She  remembered  her  first  day  at  school,  and  smiled  at  the 
recollection.  Her  mother  had  taught  her  herself  until  she  was 
eight  years  old.  She  used  to  explain  things  to  Jenny  by  com- 
parison; a cape,  for  instance,  was  likened  to  a small  point  near 
the  town,  which  Jenny  knew  well,  so  when  the  teacher  asked 
her  in  the  geography  lesson  to  name  some  Norwegian  capes,  she 
answered  without  hesitation:  “ Naesodden.”  The  teacher 

smiled  and  all  the  pupils  laughed.  “ Signe,”  said  the  teacher, 
and  another  girl  stood  up  briskly  to  answer:  “ Nordkap, 

Lindesnaes,  Stat.”  Jenny  smiled  in  a superior  way,  not  heed- 
ing their  laughter.  She  had  never  had  child  friends,  and  she 
never  made  any. 

She  had  smiled  indifferently  at  their  sneering  and  teasing,  but 
a quiet,  implacable  hatred  grew  in  her  towards  the  other  chil- 
dren, who  to  her  mind  formed  one  compact  mass,  a many-headed 


90 


JENNY 


savage  beast.  The  consuming  rage  which  filled  her  when  they 
tormented  her  was  always  hidden  behind  a scornful,  indifferent 
smile.  Once  she  had  nearly  cried  her  eyes  out  with  rage  and 
misery,  and  when  on  one  or  two  occasions  she  had  lost  control 
of  herself,  she  had  seen  their  triumph.  Only  by  putting  on 
an  air  of  placid,  irritating  indifference  could  she  hold  her  own 
against  them. 

In  the  upper  form  she  made  friends  with  one  or  two  girls; 
she  was  then  at  an  age  when  no  child  can  bear  to  be  unlike 
others,  and  she  tried  to  copy  them.  These  friendships,  however, 
did  not  give  her  much  joy.  She  remembered  how  they  made 
fun  of  her  when  they  discovered  that  she  played  with  dolls. 
She  disowned  her  beloved  children  and  said  they  belonged  to 
her  little  sisters. 

There  was  a time  when  she  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage.  She 
and  her  friends  were  stage-struck;  they  sold  their  school  books 
and  their  confirmation  brooches  to  buy  tickets,  and  night  after 
night  they  went  to  the  gallery  of  the  theatre.  One  day  she  told 
her  friends  how  she  would  act  a certain  part  that  interested 
them.  They  burst  out  laughing;  they  had  always  known  she 
was  conceited,  but  not  that  she  was  a megalomaniac.  Did  she 
really  believe  that  she  could  become  an  artist,  she,  who  could 
not  even  dance?  It  would  be  a pretty  sight  indeed  to  see  her 
walk  up  and  down  the  stage  with  that  tall,  stiff  skeleton  of 
hers. 

No,  she  could  not  dance.  When  she  was  quite  a child  her 
mother  used  to  play  to  her,  and  she  twisted  and  turned,  tripped 
and  curtseyed  as  she  liked,  and  her  mother  called  her  a little 
linnet.  She  thought  of  her  first  party,  how  she  had  arrived  full 
of  anticipation,  happy  in  a new  white  dress  which  her  mother 
had  made  after  an  old  English  picture.  She  remembered  how 
she  stiffened  all  over  when  she  began  to  dance.  That  stiffness 
never  quite  left  her;  when  she  tried  to  learn  dancing  by  herself 
her  soft,  slim  body  became  stiff  as  a poker.  She  was  no  good 


JENNY 


9i 

at  it.  She  was  very  anxious  to  go  to  a dancing  class,  but  it 
never  came  to  anything. 

She  laughed  at  the  recollection  of  her  school  friends.  She 
had  met  two  of  them  at  the  exhibition  at  home,  the  first  time 
she  had  got  one  of  her  pictures  hung  and  a few  lines  of  praise  in 
the  papers.  She  was  with  some  other  artists  — Heggen  was 
one  of  them  — when  they  came  up  to  congratulate  her: 
“Didn’t  we  always  say  you’d  be  an  artist?  We  were  all  sure 
that  some  day  we  should  hear  more  of  you.” 

She  had  smiled:  “Yes,  Ella;  so  was  I.” 

Lonely!  She  had  been  lonely  ever  since  her  mother  met 
Mr.  Berner,  who  worked  with  her  in  the  same  office.  She  was 
about  ten  at  that  time,  but  she  understood  at  once  that  her 
dead  father  had  departed  from  their  home.  His  picture  was 
still  hanging  there,  but  he  was  gone,  and  it  dawned  upon  her 
what  death  really  meant.  The  dead  existed  only  in  the  mem- 
ory of  others,  who  had  the  power  conditionally  to  end  their 
poor  shadow  life  — and  they  were  gone  for  ever. 

She  understood  why  her  mother  became  young  and  pretty 
and  happy  again;  she  noticed  the  expression  on  her  face  when 
Berner  rang  the  bell.  She  was  allowed  to  stay  in  the  room  and 
listen  to  their  talk ; it  was  never  about  things  the  child  could  not 
hear,  and  they  did  not  send  her  out  of  the  room  when  they 
were  together  in  her  home.  In  spite  of  the  jealousy  in  her 
little  heart,  she  understood  that  there  were  many  things  a 
grown-up  mother  could  not  speak  about  with  a little  girl,  and  a 
strong  feeling  of  justice  developed  in  her.  She  did  not  wish 
to  be  angry  with  her  mother,  but  it  hurt  very  much  all  the 
same. 

She  was  too  proud  to  show  it,  and  when  her  mother  in  mo- 
ments of  self-reproach  suddenly  overwhelmed  her  child  with 
tenderness  and  care,  she  remained  cold  and  passive.  She  said 
not  a word  when  her  mother  wanted  her  to  call  Berner  father 
^nd  said  how  fond  he  was  of  her.  In  the  night  she  .tried  to 


JENNY 


92 

speak  to  her  own  father,  with  a passionate  longing  to  keep  him 
alive,  but  she  felt  she  could  not  do  it  alone;  she  knew  him  only 
through  her  mother.  By  and  by  Jens  Winge  became  dead  to 
her  too,  and  since  he  had  been  the  centre  of  her  conception  of 
God,  and  heaven,  and  eternal  life,  all  these  faded  away  with 
his  picture.  She  remembered  quite  distinctly  how,  at  thirteen, 
she  had  listened  to  the  Scriptures  at  school  without  believing 
anything,  and  because  the  others  in  her  form  believed  in  God 
and  were  afraid  of  the  devil,  and  yet  were  cowardly  and  cruel, 
and  mean  and  common  — in  her  opinion  at  least  — religion 
became  to  her  something  despicable,  cowardly,  something  as- 
sociated with  them. 

She  got  to  like  Nils  Berner  against  her  will;  she  preferred 
him  almost  to  her  mother  in  the  first  period  of  their  married 
life.  He  claimed  no  authority  over  his  step-daughter,  but  by 
his  wise  and  kind,  frank  ways  he  won  her  over.  She  was  the 
child  of  the  woman  he  loved  — that  was  reason  enough  for  him 
to  be  fond  of  Jenny. 

She  had  much  to  thank  her  stepfather  for;  how  much,  she 
had  not  understood  till  now.  He  had  fought  and  conquered 
much  that  was  distorted  and  morbid  in  her.  When  she  lived 
alone  with  her  mother  in  the  hothouse  air  of  tenderness,  care, 
and  dreams,  she  had  been  a nervous  child,  afraid  of  dogs,  of 
trams,  of  matches  — afraid  of  everything  — and  she  was  sensi- 
tive to  bodily  pain.  Her  mother  dared  scarcely  let  her  go 
alone  to  school. 

The  first  thing  Berner  did  was  to  take  the  girl  with  him  to 
the  woods;  Sunday  after  Sunday  they  went  to  Nordmarken,  in 
broiling  sunshine  or  pouring  rain,  in  the  thaws  of  spring,  and 
in  winter  on  ski.  Jenny,  who  was  used  to  conceal  her  feel- 
ings, tried  not  to  show  how  tired  and  nervous  she  was,  and 
after  a time  she  did  not  feel  it. 

Berner  taught  her  to  use  map  and  compass,  he  talked  to  her 
as  to  a friend,  and  he  taught  her  to  observe  the  signs  of  wind 


JENNY 


93 

and  clouds,  which  brought  about  a change  in  the  weather, 
and  to  reckon  time  and  distance  by  the  sun.  He  made  her 
familiar  with  animals  and  plants  — root  and  stalk,  leaf  and 
bud,  blossom  and  fruit.  Her  sketch-book  and  his  camera  were 
always  in  their  knapsack. 

All  the  kindness  and  devotion  her  stepfather  had  put  into  this 
work  of  education  she  appreciated  now  for  the  first  time  — for 
he  was  a well-known  ski-runner  and  mountaineer  in  the  Jotun- 
heim  and  Nordlandstinderne. 

He  had  promised  to  take  her  there  too.  The  summer  when 
she  was  fifteen,  she  went  with  him  grouse-shooting.  Her  mother 
could  not  go  with  them:  she  was  expecting  the  little  brother  by 
that  time. 

They  stayed  in  a solitary  mountain  saeter  below  Rondane. 
She  had  never  been  so  happy  in  all  her  life  as  when  she  awoke 
in  her  tiny  bunk.  She  hurried  out  to  make  coffee  for  her  step- 
father, and  he  took  her  to  the  Ronde  peaks,  into  the  Styg  moun- 
tains, and  on  fishing  tours;  and  they  went  down  together  to  the 
valley  for  provisions.  When  he  was  out  shooting,  she  bathed 
in  the  cold  mountain  brooks  and  went  for  endless  walks  on  the 
moors;  or  sat  in  the  porch  knitting  and  dreaming,  weaving 
romances  about  a fair  saeter  maiden  and  a huntsman,  who  was 
very  like  Berner,  but  young  and  handsome,  and  who  could  tell 
about  hunting  and  mountaineering  like  Berner  used  to  do  in 
the  evening  by  the  fire.  And  he  should  promise  to  give  her  a 
gun  and  take  her  up  to  unknown  mountain-tops. 

She  remembered  how  tormented,  ashamed,  and  unhappy  she 
was  when  she  knew  that  her  mother  was  going  to  have  a baby. 
She  tried  to  hide  her  thoughts  from  her  mother,  but  she  knew 
she  only  partly  succeeded.  Berner’s  anxiety  about  his  wife 
as  the  time  drew  near  brought  a change  in  her  feelings.  He 
spoke  to  her  about  it:  “I  am  so  afraid,  Jenny,  because  I love 

your  mother  so  dearly,”  and  he  told  her  that  when  she  herself 
was  born  her  mother  was  very  ill.  The  belief  that  her  mother’s 


JENNY 


94 

condition  was  unclean  and  unnatural  left  her  when  he  spoke, 
but  with  it  went  also  the  feeling  that  the  bond  between  her 
mother  and  herself  was  mysterious,  supernatural.  It  became 
everyday,  commonplace;  she  had  been  born  and  her  mother  had 
suffered;  she  had  been  small  and  needed  her  mother,  and  be- 
cause of  that  her  mother  had  loved  her.  Another  little  child 
was  soon  coming,  who  needed  her  mother  more.  Jenny  -felt 
she  had  grown  up  all  at  once;  she  sympathized  with  her  mother 
as  well  as  with  Berner,  and  comforted  him  in  a precocious 
way:  “ It  will  pass  off  quite  well;  it  always  does,  you  know. 

They  scarcely  ever  die  of  it.” 

When  she  saw  her  mother  with  the  new  child,  who  took  all 
her  time  and  care,  Jenny  felt  very  forlorn,  and  she  cried,  but 
by  and  by  she  became  very  fond  of  the  baby,  especially  when 
little  Ingeborg  was  over  a year  old  and  was  the  sweetest,  dark- 
est little  gipsy  doll  you  could  imagine  — and  her  mother  had 
another  tiny  infant. 

She  had  never  considered  the  Berner  children  as  her  sisters; 
they  were  exactly  like  their  father.  Her  relationship  to  them 
was  more  that  of  an  aunt  — she  felt  herself  almost  as  an 
elderly,  sensible  aunt  to  her  mother  as  well  as  to  the  children. 

When  the  accident  happened  her  mother  was  younger  and 
weaker  than  she.  Mrs.  Winge  had  become  young  again  in  her 
second  happy  marriage,  and  she  was  a little  tired  and  worn 
after  her  three  confinements  in  the  comparatively  short  time. 
Nils  was  only  five  months  old  when  his  father  died. 

Berner  fell  one  summer  when  out  mountaineering,  and  wras 
killed  on  the  spot.  Jenny  was  then  sixteen.  Her  mother’s 
grief  was  boundless;  she  had  loved  her  husband  and  been 
worshipped  by  him.  Jenny  tried  to  help  her  as  much  as  she 
could.  How  deeply  she  herself  mourned  her  stepfather  she 
never  told  anybody;  she  knew  that  she  had  lost  the  best  friend 
she  had  ever  had. 

When  she  had  finished  school  she  began  to  take  drawing 


JENNY 


95 

lessons,  and  helped  her  mother  in  the  house.  Berner  had  al- 
ways been  interested  in  her  drawings;  he  had  been  the  first  to 
teach  her  perspective  and  such  things  — all  he  knew  about  it 
himself.  He  had  believed  she  had  some  talent. 

They  could  not  afford  to  keep  his  dog.  The  two  little  pup- 
pies were  sold,  and  Mrs.  Berner  thought  Leddy  ought  to  be 
sold  too  — it  cost  so  much  to  feed  her.  But  Jenny  objected; 
nobody  should  have  the  dog,  which  was  mourning  for  its  mas- 
ter, if  they  could  not  keep  it,  and  she  had  her  way.  She  took 
the  dog  herself  one  evening  to  Mr.  Iversnaes,  Berner’s  friend, 
who  shot  and  buried  Leddy. 

What  Berner  had  been  to  her  — a friend  and  a comrade  — 
she  tried  to  be  to  his  children.  As  the  two  girls  grew  up, 
the  relations  between  them  and  Jenny  became  less  intimate, 
though  still  quite  friendly,  but  the  great  difference  in  age  made 
a breach  between  them  which  Jenny  never  tried  to  cross. 

They  were  now  quite  nice  little  girls  in  their  teens,  with 
anæmia,  small  flirtations,  friendships,  parties,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  — a merry  pair,  but  somewhat  indolent.  The  friendship 
between  Nils  and  her  had  grown  in  strength  as  time  went  on. 
His  father  had  called  the  tiny  baby  Kalfatrus;  Jenny  had 
adopted  the  name,  and  the  boy  called  her  Indiana. 

During  all  those  sad  years  now  behind  her,  the  rambles  in 
Nordmarken  with  Kalfatrus  were  the  only  occasions  when  she 
could  breathe  freely.  She  enjoyed  them  specially  in  spring  or 
autumn,  when  there  were  few  people  about,  and  she  and  the 
boy  sat  quietly  gazing  into  the  burning  pile  of  wood  they  had 
made,  or  lay  on  the  ground  talking  to  one  another  in  their  par- 
ticular slang,  which  they  dared  not  use  at  home  for  fear  of 
vexing  their  mother.  Her  portrait  of  Kalfatrus  was  the  first 
of  her  paintings  to  please  her;  it  was  really  good. 

Gunnar  scolded  her  for  not  exhibiting  it ; he  thought  it  would 
have  been  bought  for  the  picture  gallery  at  home.  She  had 
never  painted  so  good  a picture  since. 


96 


JENNY 


She  was  to  have  painted  Berner  — papa.  She  had  begun  to 
call  him  thus  when  his  own  children  started  to  talk,  and  also 
to  call  her  mother  mamma.  This  marked  to  her  mind  the 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  the  relations  between  her  and 
the  mother  of  her  brief  childhood. 

The  first  part  of  the  time  out  here,  when  at  last  she  was 
freed  from  the  constant  strain,  was  not  pleasant.  She  realized 
that  her  every  nerve  was  quivering  from  the  strain,  and  she 
thought  it  impossible  ever  to  regain  her  youth.  From  her  stay 
in  Florence  she  remembered  only  that  she  had  been  cold,  felt 
lonely,  and  been  unable  to  assimilate  all  that  was  new  around 
her.  Little  by  little  the  endless  treasure  of  beauty  was  re- 
vealed to  her,  and  she  was  seized  by  a great  longing  to  grasp 
it  and  live  in  it,  to  be  young,  to  love  and  be  loved.  She  thought 
of  the  first  spring  days  when  Cesca  and  Gunnar  took  her  to 
Viterbo  — of  the  sunshine  on  the  bare  trees  and  the  masses  of 
anemones,  violets,  and  cowslips  in  the  faded  grass.  Of  the 
steppe-like  plain  outside  the  city,  with  fumes  of  boiling,  strongly 
smelling  sulphur  springs  wafted  through  the  air,  and  the  ground 
all  round  white  with  curdling  lime.  The  thousands  of  swift 
emerald-green  lizards  in  the  stone  walls,  the  olive  trees  in  the 
green  meadows,  where  white  butterflies  fluttered  about.  The 
old  city  with  singing  fountains  and  black  mediaeval  houses, 
and  the  towers  in  the  surrounding  wall  with  moonlight  on 
them.  And  the  yellow,  slightly  effervescent  wine,  with  a fiery 
taste  from  the  volcanic  soil  on  which  it  was  grown. 

She  called  her  new  friends  by  their  names.  In  the  night 
Francesca  made  a confession  of  her  young,  eventful  life,  and 
crept  into  her  bed  at  last  to  be  comforted,  repeating  time  after 
time:  “ Fancy,  you  being  like  this!  I was  always  afraid  of 

you  at  school.  I never  thought  you  could  be  so  kind!  ” 

Gunnar  was  in  love  with  both  of  them.  He  was  full  of  fire, 


JENNY 


97 

like  a young  faun  in  spring-time,  and  Francesca  let  herself  be 
kissed,  and  laughed  and  called  him  a silly  boy. 

But  Jenny  was  afraid,  though  not  of  him.  She  dared  not 
kiss  his  hot,  red  mouth,  for  the  sake  of  something  intangible, 
intoxicating,  frivolous,  which  would  last  only  while  they  were 
there  amid  sun  and  anemones  — something  irresponsible.  She 
dared  not  put  aside  her  old  self ; she  felt  that  she  could  not  take 
a flirtation  light-heartedly,  and  neither  could  he.  She  had 
already  seen  enough  of  Gunnar  Heggen  to  know  that  in  his 
affairs  with  other  women  he  was  such  as  they  were  — and  yet 
not  quite  — for  in  his  inmost  self  he  was  a good  man,  much 
better  than  most  women  are.  His  infatuation  had  soon  turned 
into  friendship,  and  during  the  lovely,  peaceful  time  in  Paris, 
when  they  had  worked  hard,  and  afterwards  out  here,  it  had 
grown  stronger  and  stronger. 

It  was  quite  a different  matter  with  Gram.  He  did  not 
arouse  any  adventurous  fancies  or  wild  longings  in  her.  He 
was  not  at  all  stupid,  as  she  had  thought  at  first;  it  was  only 
that  he  seemed  almost  stunted,  checked  in  mental  growth,  when 
he  came  out  here,  and  she  at  least  ought  to  have  understood  it. 
There  was  something  gentle  and  young  and  sound  about  him, 
which  she  liked  — he  seemed  more  than  two  years  her  junior. 
His  talk  of  being  in  love  with  her  was  nothing  but  a surplus  of 
the  joy  he  felt  at  the  freedom  of  his  new  life.  There  was  no 
danger  in  it,  either  for  him  or  for  her.  They  were  fond  of  her 
at  home,  of  course,  and  Gunnar  and  Francesca  were  fond  of 
her  too,  but  did  any  one  of  them  think  of  her  tonight?  She 
was  not  altogether  sorry  to  know  that  there  was  some  one  who 
did. 


98 


JENNY 


IX 

WHEN  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  told  herself 
that  he  would  very  likely  not  come  at  all,  and  so 
much  the  better  — but  when  he  knocked  at  her 
door  she  was  pleased  all  the  same. 

“ I have  had  nothing  to  eat  yet,  Miss  Winge.  Could  you 
give  me  a cup  of  tea  and  some  bread?  ” 

Jenny  looked  about  her  in  the  room. 

“ Yes,  but  the  room  isn’t  done  yet.” 

“ I’ll  shut  my  eyes  while  you  lead  me  on  to  the  balcony,” 
said  Gram  from  behind  the  door.  “ I am  dying  for  a cup  of 
tea.” 

“ Very  well,  half  a minute.”  Jenny  covered  her  bed  with 
the  counterpane,  tidied  the  dressing-table,  and  changed  her 
dressing-jacket  for  a long  kimono.  “ Come  in,  and  please  go 
and  sit  on  the  balcony  while  I get  your  tea.”  She  brought  out 
a stool  and  placed  some  bread  and  cheese  on  it. 

Gram  looked  at  her  bare,  white  arms  in  the  long,  fluttering 
sleeves  of  the  dark  blue  kimono  with  a pattern  of  yellow  and 
purple  iris. 

“ What  a pretty  thing  you  have  on.  It  looks  like  a real 
geisha  dress.” 

“ It  is  real.  Cesca  and  I bought  these  in  Paris  to  wear  at 
home  in  the  morning.” 

“ It  is  a capital  idea,  I think,  to  go  about  like  that  and  look 
pretty  when  you  are  alone.  I like  it.” 

He  lit  a cigarette  and  gazed  at  the  smoke  as  it  rose  in  the 
air. 

“ Ugh!  At  home  the  maid  and  my  mother  and  sister  used 
to  look  like  anything  in  the  morning.  Don’t  you  think  women 
ought  always  to  make  themselves  look  as  pretty  as  possible?” 
“ Yes,  but  it  isn’t  always  possible  when  you  have  to  do  house- 
work.” 


JENNY 


99 

“ Perhaps  not,  but  they  might  at  least  do  their  hair  before 
breakfast  and  put  on  a thing  like  that,  don’t  you  think?  ” 

He  was  just  in  time  to  save  a cup,  which  she  was  on  the  point 
of  brushing  down  with  her  sleeve. 

“You  see  how  practical  it  is.  Now,  drink  your  tea;  you 
said  you  were  thirsty.” 

She  discovered  suddenly  that  Cesca’s  whole  stock  of  coloured 
stockings  were  hanging  to  dry  on  the  balcony,  and  she  removed 
them  a little  nervously. 

While  he  was  having  his  tea  he  explained : 

“ I lay  awake  last  night  thinking,  almost  until  dawn,  and 
then,  of  course,  I overslept,  so  had  no  time  to  stop  at  the  latteria 
on  my  way.  I think  we  should  go  to  Via  Cassia  to  that 
anemone  place  of  yours.” 

“ Anemone  place.”  Jenny  laughed.  “ When  you  were  a boy 
did  you,  too,  have  special  places  for  violets  and  bluebells,  and 
kept  them  a secret  from  the  others  and  went  there  all  alone  every 
year?  ” 

“ Of  course  I had.  I know  a beech  grove  by  the  old  road 
to  Holmenkollen,  where  there  are  real  scented  violets.” 

“ I know  it  too,”  she  interrupted  triumphantly,  “ to  the  right, 
just  before  the  road  branches  off  to  Sorkedal.” 

“ Exactly.  I had  some  other  places  too,  on  Fredriksborg 
and ” 

“ I must  go  in  and  put  on  my  dress,”  said  Jenny. 

“ Put  on  the  one  you  had  yesterday,  please!  ” he  called  after 
her. 

“ It  will  get  so  dusty  ” — but  she  changed  her  mind  in  the 
same  moment.  Why  should  she  not  make  herself  look  nice? 
The  old  black  silk  had  been  her  best  for  a good  many  years; 
she  need  not  treat  it  with  such  deference  any  more. 

“ I don’t  care!  but  it  fastens  at  the  back,  and  Cesca’s  not  in.” 

“ Come  out  here  and  I’ll  button  it  for  you.  I am  an  expert 
at  it.  It  seems  to  me  I have  done  nothing  all  my 


100 


JENNY 


life  but  fasten  mother’s  and  Sophy’s  buttons  at  the  back.” 
She  could  manage  all  but  two,  and  she  allowed  Gram  to 
help  her  with  them.  As  she  stood  by  him  in  the  sunshine  while 
he  fastened  her  dress,  he  became  aware  of  the  faint,  mild 
fragrance  of  her  hair  and  her  body.  He  noticed  one  or  two 
small  rents  in  the  silk,  which  were  carefully  darned,  and  the 
sight  of  it  filled  his  heart  with  an  infinite  tenderness  towards 
her. 


“ Do  you  think  Helge  a nice  name?  ” he  asked,  when  they 
were  having  lunch  at  an  osteria  far  out  on  the  Campagna. 

“ Yes;  I like  it.” 

“ Do  you  know  that  it  is  my  Christian  name?  ” 

“ Yes;  I saw  you  had  written  it  in  the  visitors’  book  at  the 
club.”  She  blushed  slightly,  thinking  he  might  believe  that 
she  had  looked  it  up  on  purpose. 

“ I suppose  it  is  nice.  On  the  whole,  there  are  few  names 
that  are  nice  or  ugly  in  themselves;  it  all  depends  if  you  like 
the  people  or  not.  When  I was  a boy  we  had  a nurse  called 
Jenny;  I could  not  bear  her,  and  ever  since  I thought  the  name 
was  hideous  and  common.  It  seemed  to  me  preposterous  that 
you  should  be  called  Jenny,  but  now  I think  it  so  pretty;  it  gives 
one  an  idea  of  fairness.  Can  you  not  hear  how  delicately  fair 
it  sounds?  — Jenny  — a dark  woman  could  not  be  called  that, 
not  Miss  Jahrman,  for  instance.  Francesca  suits  her  captially, 
don’t  you  think?  It  sounds  so  capricious,  but  Jenny  is  nice 
and  bright.” 

“ It  is  a name  we’ve  always  had  in  my  father’s  family,”  she 
said,  by  way  of  an  answer. 

“ What  do  you  think  of  Rebecca,  for  instance?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.  Rather  harsh  and  clattering,  perhaps,  but 
it  is  pretty,  though.” 

“ My  mother’s  name  is  Rebecca,”  said  Helge.  “ I think  it 
sounds  hard,  too.  My  sister’s  name  is  Sophy.  She  married 


JENNY 


101 


only  to  get  away  from  home,  I am  sure,  and  have  a place  of 
her  own.  I wonder  mother  could  be  so  delighted  to  get  her 
married,  considering  the  cat-and-dog  life  she  herself  has  led 
with  my  father.  But  there  was  no  end  of  a fuss  about  the  Rev. 
Arnesen,  when  my  sister  got  engaged  to  him.  I can’t  stand  my 
brother-in-law,  neither  can  father,  I believe,  but  mother!  . . . 

“ My  fiancée  — I was  engaged  once,  you  know  — her  name 
was  Catherine,  but  she  was  always  called  Titti.  I saw  she 
had  that  name  put  into  the  papers,  too,  when  her  marriage  was 
announced. 

“ It  was  a stupid  thing  altogether.  It  was  three  years  ago. 
She  was  giving  some  lessons  in  the  school  where  I was  teach- 
ing. She  was  not  a bit  pretty,  but  she  flirted  with  everybody, 
and  no  woman  had  ever  taken  any  notice  of  me  — which  you 
can  easily  understand,  when  you  think  of  me  as  I w7as  here  at 
first.  She  always  laughed  at  everything  — she  was  only  nine- 
teen. Heaven  knows  why  she  took  to  me. 

“ I was  jealous,  and  it  amused  her.  The  more  jealous  she 
made  me,  the  more  in  love  was  I.  I suppose  it  was  less  love 
than  male  vanity,  having  a sweetheart  very  much  in  demand. 
I was  very  young  then.  I wanted  her  to  be  exclusively  taken 
up  with  me  — a very  difficult  proposition  as  I was  then.  I 
have  often  wondered  what  she  wanted  me  for. 

“ My  people  wanted  our  engagement  to  be  kept  secret,  be- 
cause we  were  so  young.  Titti  wanted  it  made  public,  and 
when  I reproached  her  for  being  too  much  interested  in  other 
men,  she  said  she  could  not  spend  all  her  time  with  me,  as  our 
engagement  was  a secret. 

“ I took  her  home,  but  she  could  not  get  on  with  my  mother. 
They  always  quarrelled,  and  Titti  simply  hated  her.  I sup- 
pose it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  mother  if  I had  been 
engaged  to  somebody  else;  the  fact  that  I was  going  to  marry 
was  enough  to  put  her  against  any  woman.  Well  — Titti 
broke  it  off.” 


102 


JENNY 


“ Did  it  hurt  you  very  much?  ” Jenny  asked  quietly. 

“ Yes,  at  the  time.  I did  not  quite  get  over  it  till  I came 
here,  but  I think  it  was  mostly  my  pride  that  suffered.  Don’t 
you  think  that  if  I had  loved  her  really,  I should  have  wished 
her  to  be  happy  when  she  married  another?  But  I didn’t.” 

“ It  would  have  been  almost  too  unselfish  and  noble,”  said 
Jenny,  smiling. 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know.  That  is  how  you  ought  to  feel  if  you 
really  love.  Don’t  you  think  it  is  strange  that  mothers  never 
care  for  their  sons’  sweethearts?  They  never  do.” 

“ I suppose  a mother  thinks  no  woman  is  good  enough  for 
her  boy.” 

“ When  a daughter  gets  engaged  it  is  quite  different.  I saw 
that  in  the  case  of  my  sister  and  the  fat,  red-haired  cleargyman. 
There  was  never  much  sympathy  between  my  sister  and  myself, 
but  when  I saw  that  fellow  making  love  to  her,  and  thought 
that  he  . . . Ugh! 

“ I sometimes  think  women  who  have  been  married  some 
time  become  more  cynical  than  we  men  ever  are.  They  don’t 
give  themselves  away,  but  you  notice  it  all  the  same.  Marriage 
to  them  means  merely  business.  When  a daughter  marries  they 
are  pleased  to  have  her  saddled  on  to  some  one  who  can  feed 
and  clothe  her,  and  if  she  has  to  put  up  with  the  shady  side  of 
marriage  in  return,  it’s  not  worth  making  a fuss  about.  But  if 
a son  takes  upon  himself  the  same  kind  of  burden  for  a similar 
return,  they  are  not  so  enthusiastic  about  it.  Don’t  you  think 
there  is  something  in  it?  ” 

“ Sometimes,”  said  Jenny. 

When  she  came  home  that  evening  she  lit  the  lamp  and  sat 
down  to  write  to  her  mother  to  thank  her  for  the  birthday  greet- 
ings and  tell  her  how  she  had  spent  the  day. 

She  laughed  at  herself  for  having  been  so  solemn  the  night 
before.  Heaven  knows,  she  had  had  difficulties  and  been 
lonely,  but  so  had  most  of  the  young  people  she  knew.  Some 


JENNY  103 

of  them  had  been  worse  off  than  she.  She  thought  of  all  the 
young  girls  — and  the  old  ones  — who  had  taught  at  the  school; 
nearly  all  of  them  had  an  old  mother  to  support,  or  sisters  and 
brothers  to  help.  And  Gunnar?  — and  Gram?  Even  Cesca, 
the  spoilt  child  from  a rich  home,  had  fought  her  way,  since 
she  had  left  home  at  twenty-one  and  kept  herself  on  the  little 
money  left  her  by  her  mother. 

As  to  loneliness,  she  had  chosen  it  herself.  All  said  and 
done,  she  had  perhaps  not  been  quite  sure  about  her  own  powers, 
and  to  deaden  her  doubts,  had  held  by  the  idea  that  she  was 
different  from  other  people  — and  they  had  been  repelled. 
She  had  made  some  headway  since,  had  proved  to  herself  that 
she  could  do  something,  and  had  grown  more  friendly,  less  re- 
served, than  before.  She  was  obliged  to  admit  that  she  had 
never  made  any  advances,  either  as  a child  or  since;  she  had 
always  been  too  proud  to  take  the  first  step.  All  the  friends 
she  had  — from  her  stepfather  to  Gunnar  and  Cesca  — had 
first  stretched  out  their  hands  to  her.  And  why  had  she  al- 
ways imagined  that  she  was  passionate?  Such  nonsense!  She 
who  had  reached  twenty-eight  without  ever  having  been  the 
least  in  love.  She  believed  that  she  would  not  be  a failure  as 
a woman,  if  once  she  were  fond  of  a man,  for  she  was  healthy, 
good  looking,  and  had  sound  instincts,  which  her  work  and 
outdoor  life  had  developed.  And  very  naturally  she  longed 
to  love  and  be  loved  — longed  to  live.  But  to  imagine  that  she 
would  be  able,  from  sheer  rebellion  of  her  senses,  to  fall  into 
the  arms  of  any  man  who  happened  to  be  near  at  a critical  mo- 
ment was  utter  nonsense.  It  was  only  because  she  would  not 
admit  to  herself  that  she  was  dull  sometimes  and  wished  to 
make  a conquest  and  flirt  a little  just  like  other  girls  — a pas- 
time which  in  reality  she  did  not  approve  of  — that  she  pre- 
ferred to  imagine  she  was  consumed  by  a thirst  for  life  and 
clamouring  senses.  Such  high-flown  words  were  only  invented 
by  men,  poor  things,  not  knowing  that  women  generally  are 


JENNY 


104 

simple  and  vain,  and  so  stupid  that  they  are  bored  unless  there 
is  a man  to  entertain  them.  That  is  the  origin  of  the  legend 
of  the  sensual  woman  — they  are  as  rare  as  black  swans,  or 
disciplined,  educated  women. 

Jenny  moved  Francesca’s  portrait  on  to  the  easel.  The  white 
blouse  and  the  green  skirt  looked  hard  and  ugly.  It  would  have 
to  be  toned  down.  The  face  was  well  drawn,  the  position 
good. 

This  episode  with  Gram  was  really  nothing  to  be  serious 
about.  It  was  time  she  became  reasonable.  She  must  do  away 
with  those  silly  notions  that  she  was  afraid  of  every  man  she 
met  — as  with  Gunnar  in  the  beginning  — afraid  of  falling  in 
love  with  him,  and  almost  more  of  his  falling  in  love  with  her: 
a thing  she  was  so  unused  to  that  it  bewildered  her. 

Why  could  one  not  be  friends  with  a man?  If  not,  the 
world  would  be  all  a muddle.  She  and  Gunnar  were  friends  — 
a solid,  comfortable  friendship. 

There  was  much  about  Gram  that  would  make  a friendship 
between  them  quite  natural.  They  had  had  much  the  same 
experiences.  He  was  so  young  and  so  full  of  confidence  in  her; 
she  liked  his  “ Is  it  not?  ” and  “ Don’t  you  think?  ” He  had 
talked  yesterday  about  being  in  love  with  her  — he  thought  at 
least  he  was,  he  said.  She  smiled  to  herself.  A man  would 
not  speak  to  her  as  he  had  done  if  he  had  really  fallen  in  love 
with  a woman  and  wanted  to  win  her. 

“ He  is  a dear  boy;  that’s  what  he  is.” 

Today  he  had  not  broached  the  subject.  She  liked  him  when 
he  said  that  if  he  had  been  really  fond  of  the  girl  he  would 
have  wished  her  happiness  with  the  other  man. 


JENNY 


105 


X 

JENNY  and  Helge  were  running  hand  in  hand  down  Via 
Magnanapoli.  The  street  was  merely  a staircase,  leading 
to  the  Trajan  Forum.  On  the  last  step  he  drew  her  to 
him  and  kissed  her. 

“Are  you  mad?  You  mustn’t  kiss  people  in  the  street 
here.” 

And  they  both  laughed.  One  evening  they  had  been  spoken 
to  by  two  policemen  on  the  Lateran  piazza  for  walking  up  and 
down  under  the  pines  along  the  old  wall  kissing  each  other. 

The  last  sunrays  brushed  the  bronze  figures  on  top  of  the 
pillar  and  burned  on  the  walls  and  on  the  tree-tops  in  the  gar- 
dens. The  piazza  lay  in  the  shade,  with  its  old,  rickety  houses 
round  the  excavated  forum  below  the  street  level. 

Jenny  and  Helge  leaned  over  the  railing  and  tried  to  count 
the  fat,  lazy  cats  which  had  taken  their  abode  among  the 
stumps  of  pillars  on  the  grass-covered  plot.  They  seemed  to 
revive  a little  as  the  twilight  began  to  fall.  A big  red  one 
which  had  been  lying  on  the  pedestal  of  the  Trajan  pillar 
stretched  himself,  sharpened  his  claws  on  the  masonry,  jumped 
down  on  to  the  grass,  and  ran  away. 

“ I make  it  twenty-three,”  said  Helge. 

“ I counted  twenty-five.”  She  turned  round  and  dismissed 
a post  card  seller,  who  was  recommending  his  wares  in  frag- 
ments of  every  possible  language. 

She  leaned  again  over  the  railing  and  stared  vaguely  at  the 
grass,  giving  way  to  the  pleasant  languor  of  a long  sunny  day 
and  countless  kisses  out  in  the  green  Campagna.  Helge  held 
one  of  her  hands  on  his  arm  and  patted  it  — she  moved  it  along 
his  sleeve  until  it  rested  between  both  of  his.  Helge  smiled 
happily. 

“ What  is  it,  dear?  ” 


io6 


JENNY 


“ I am  thinking  of  those  Germans.”  She  laughed  too  — 
quietly  and  indifferently,  as  happy  people  do  at  trifles  that  do 
not  concern  them.  They  had  passed  the  Forum  in  the  morning 
and  sat  down  a moment  on  the  high  pedestal  of  the  Focas  pillar, 
talking  in  whispers.  Beneath  them  lay  the  crumbled  ruins, 
gilded  by  the  sun,  and  small  black  tourists  rambled  among  the 
stones.  A newly  married  German  couple  were  walking  by 
themselves,  seeking  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  of 
travellers.  He  was  fair  and  ruddy  of  face,  wore  knickerbockers 
and  carried  a kodak,  and  read  to  his  wife  out  of  Baedeker. 
She  was  very  young,  plump,  and  dark,  with  the  inherited  stamp 
of  hausfrau  on  her  smooth,  floury  face.  She  sat  down  on  a 
tumbled  pillar,  posing  to  her  husband,  who  took  a snapshot  of 
her.  And  the  two  who  sat  above,  under  the  Focas  pillar,  whis- 
pering of  their  love,  laughed,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
sitting  above  the  Forum  Romanum. 

“ Are  you  hungry?  ” asked  Helge. 

“ No;  are  you?  ” 

“No  — but  do  you  know  what  I should  like  to  do?” 
“Well?” 

“ I should  like  to  go  home  with  you  and  have  supper.  What 
do  you  say  to  that?  ” 

“ Yes,  of  course.” 

They  walked  home  arm  in  arm  through  small  side  streets. 
In  her  dark  staircase  he  drew  her  suddenly  to  him,  and  kissed 
her  with  such  force  and  passion  that  her  heart  began  to  beat 
violently.  She  was  afraid,  and  at  the  same  time  angry  with 
herself  for  being  so,  and  whispered  in  the  dark:  “ My  darling,” 

to  prove  to  herself  that  she  was  calm. 

“ Wait  a moment,”  whispered  Helge,  when  she  was  going  to 
light  the  lamp,  and  he  kissed  her  again.  “ Put  on  the  geisha- 
dress;  you  look  so  sweet  in  it.  I will  sit  on  the  balcony  while 
you  change.” 


JENNY 


107 

Jenny  changed  her  dress  in  the  dark;  she  put  the  kettle  on 
and  arranged  the  anemones  and  the  almond  sprigs  before  she 
called  him  in  and  lighted  up. 

He  took  her  again  in  his  arms  and  said: 

“ Oh,  Jenny,  you  are  so  lovely.  Everything  about  you  is 
lovely;  it  is  heavenly  to  be  with  you.  I wish  I could  be  with 
you  always.” 

She  took  his  face  between  her  two  hands. 

“ Jenny  — you  wish  it  — that  we  could  be  always  together?  ” 

She  looked  into  his  beautiful  brown  eyes: 

“ Yes,  Helge;  I do.” 

“ Do  you  wish  that  this  spring  — our  spring  — never  would 
end?” 

“ Yes  — oh  yes.”  She  threw  herself  suddenly  into  his  arms 
and  kissed  him;  her  half-open  lips  and  closed  eyes  begged  for 
more  kisses;  his  words  about  their  spring,  that  should  never 
cease,  awoke  a painful  anxiety  in  her  heart  that  the  spring  and 
their  dream  would  come  to  an  end.  And  yet  behind  it  all  was 
a dread,  which  she  did  not  try  to  explain  to  herself,  but  it 
came  into  existence  when  he  asked  if  she  wished  they  could 
always  be  together. 

“ I wish  I were  not  going  home,”  said  Helge  sadly. 

“ But  I am  going  home  soon  too,”  she  said  softly,  “ and  we 
shall  probably  come  back  here  together.” 

“ You  are  quite  determined  to  go?  Are  you  sorry  that  I have 
upset  all  your  plans  in  this  way?  ” 

She  gave  him  a hurried  kiss  and  ran  to  the  kettle,  which  was 
boiling  over. 

“ No,  you  silly  boy.  I had  almost  made  up  my  mind  before, 
because  mamma  wants  me  badly.”  She  gave  a short  laugh. 
“ I am  ashamed  of  myself  — she  is  so  pleased  that  I am  com- 
ing home  to  help  her,  and  it  is  really  only  to  be  with  my  lover. 
But  it  is  all  right.  I can  live  cheaper  at  home  even  if  I help 


io8 


JENNY 


them  a little,  and  I may  be  able  to  earn  something.  What  I can 
save  now,  I shall  want  here  later.” 

Helge  took  the  cup  she  gave  him  and  seized  her  hand: 

“But  next  time  you  come  here  you  will  come  with  me;  for 
I suppose  you  will  — you  mean  — that  we  should  marry?  ” 

His  face  was  so  young  and  so  anxiously  inquiring  that  she 
had  to  kiss  him  several  times,  forgetting  that  she  had  been 
afraid  of  that  word,  which  had  not  been  mentioned  between 
them  before. 

“ I suppose  that  will  be  the  most  practical  plan,  you  dear 
boy,  since  we  have  agreed  to  be  together  always.” 

Helge  kissed  her  hand,  asking  quietly:  “When?” 

“When  you  like,”  she  answered  as  quietly — and  firmly. 
Again  he  kissed  her  hand. 

“ What  a pity  we  can’t  be  married  out  here,”  he  said  a mo- 
ment after  in  a different  voice. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stroked  his  hair  softly.  Helge 
sighed  : 

“ But  I suppose  we  ought  not  to,  as  we  are  going  home  so 
soon  in  any  case.  Your  mother  would  feel  hurt,  don’t  you 
think,  at  such  a hurried  marriage?  ” 

Jenny  was  silent.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she 
owed  her  mother  any  account  of  her  doings  — her  mother  had 
not  consulted  her  when  she  had  wanted  to  marry  again. 

“ It  would  hurt  my  people,  I know.  I don’t  like  to  admit 
it,  but  it  is  so,  and  I should  much  prefer  to  write  and  tell  them 
that  I am  engaged.  As  you  are  going  home  before  me,  it  would 
be  nice  of  you  to  go  and  see  them.” 

Jenny  bent  her  head  as  if  to  shake  off  a disagreeable  sensa- 
tion, and  said: 

“ I will,  dear,  if  you  wish  me  to  — of  course.” 

“ I don’t  like  it  at  all.  It  has  been  so  lovely  here  — only 
you  and  I,  nobody  else  in  all  the  world.  But  mother  would  be 
so  vexed,  you  see,  and  I don’t  want  to  make  things  worse  for 


JENNY 


109 

her  than  they  are  already.  I don’t  care  for  my  mother  any 
longer  — she  knows  it,  and  is  so  grieved  at  it.  It  is  only 
a formality,  I know,  but  she  would  suffer  if  she  thought  I 
wanted  to  keep  her  out  in  the  cold.  She  would  think  it  was 
vengeance  for  the  old  story,  you  know.  When  we  are  through 
with  all  that,  we  will  get  married,  and  nobody  will  have  any- 
thing more  to  say.  I wish  so  much  that  it  would  be  soon  — 
don’t  you  ? ” 

She  kissed  him  in  answer. 

“ I want  you,”  he  whispered,  and  she  made  no  resistance 
when  he  caressed  her.  But  he  let  her  go  suddenly  and,  butter- 
ing his  biscuit,  began  to  eat. 

Afterwards  they  sat  by  the  stove  smoking,  she  in  the  easy- 
chair  and  he  on  the  floor  with  his  head  in  her  lap. 

“ Isn’t  Cesca  coming  back  tonight  either?  ” he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

“ No;  she  is  staying  in  Tivoli  till  the  end  of  the  week,” 
Jenny  answered  a little  nervously. 

“ You  have  such  pretty,  slender  feet.” 

“You  are  so  lovely  — oh,  so  lovely  — and  I am  so  fond  of 
you.  • You  don’t  know  how  I love  you,  Jenny  — I should  like 
to  lie  down  on  the  floor  at  your  feet.” 

“Helge!  Helge!  ” His  sudden  violence  frightened  her,  but 
then  she  said  to  herself:  he  is  my  own  darling  boy.  Why 
should  I be  afraid  of  him. 

“ No,  Helge  — don’t.  Not  the  shoes  I stamp  about  with  in 
those  dirty  streets.” 

Helge  rose  — sobered  and  humble.  She  tried  to  laugh  the 
whole  matter  away.  “ There  may  be  many  dangerous  bacilli 
on  those  shoes,  you  know.” 

“ Ugh ! What  a pedant  you  are.  And  you  pretend  to  be  an 
artist.”  He  laughed  too,  and  to  hide  his  embarrassment,  he 
went  on  boisterously:  “A  nice  sweetheart  you  are.  Let  me 

smell:  I thought  so  — you  smell  of  turpentine  and  paint.” 


no 


JENNY 


“ Nonsense,  dear;  I have  not  touched  a brush  for  three  weeks. 
But  you  will  have  to  wash,  sir.” 

“ Have  you  any  carbolic,  in  case  of  infection?  ” While  he 
was  washing  his  hands  he  said : “ My  father  used  to  say  that 

women  are  utterly  destitute  of  poetry.” 

“ Your  father  is  quite  right.” 

“ And  they  can  cure  people  by  ordering  cold  baths,”  he  said, 
with  a laugh. 

Jenny  became  suddenly  serious.  She  went  to  him,  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  kissed  him : “ I did  not  want  you 

at  my  feet,  Helge.” 

When  he  had  gone  she  was  ashamed  of  herself.  He  was 
right.  She  did  want  to  give  him  a cold  bath,  but  she  would 
not  do  it  again,  for  she  loved  him.  She  had  played  a poor  part 
tonight.  She  had  thought  of  Signora  Rosa.  What  would  she 
have  said  if  anything  had  happened?  It  was  rather  humiliat- 
ing to  realize  that  she  had  been  afraid  of  a scene  with  an  angry 
signora  — and  tried  to  get  out  of  her  promise  to  her  lover.  In 
accepting  his  love  and  responding  to  his  kisses  she  had  as  good 
as  bound  herself  over  to  give  him  all  he  asked.  She,  of  all 
people,  would  not  play  a game  where  she  took  everything  and 
gave  but  little  — not  more  than  she  could  easily  withdraw,  if  she 
changed  her  mind. 

It  was  only  nerves  — this  dread  of  something  she  had  never 
tried.  But  she  was  glad  he  had  not  asked  for  more  than  she 
could  willingly  give,  for  there  would  come  a moment,  she 
thought,  when  she  herself  would  wish  to  give  him  all. 

It  had  all  come  so  slowly  and  unnoticeably  — just  like  spring 
in  the  south  — and  as  steadily  and  surely.  No  sudden  transi- 
tion, no  cold  and  stormy  days  that  made  one  long  desperately 
for  the  sun,  for  wealth  of  light  and  consuming  heat.  There 
had  been  none  of  those  tremendously  clear,  endless,  maddening 
spring  nights  of  her  own  country.  When  the  sunny  day  was 
past,  night  came  quietly,  the  cold  and  darkness  bringing  peace- 


JENNY 


m 


ful  sleep  between  the  bright,  warm  days  — each  new  day  a little 
warmer  than  the  one  before,  each  day  with  more  flowers  on  the 
Campagna,  which  did  not  seem  greener  than  yesterday,  yet  was 
much  more  green  and  mellow  than  the  week  before. 

Her  love  for  him  had  come  in  the  same  way.  Every  night 
she  looked  forward  to  the  next  sunny  day  with  him  on  the 
Campagna,  but  gradually  it  was  more  himself  and  his  young 
love  that  she  longed  for.  She  had  let  him  kiss  her  because  it 
gave  her  pleasure,  and  from  day  to  day  their  kisses  had  grown 
more  frequent,  till  at  last  words  faded  away  and  kisses  took 
their  place. 

He  had  become  more  manly  and  mature  from  day  to  day; 
the  uncertainty  and  the  sudden  despondency  of  the  earlier  days 
had  quite  left  him.  She  herself  was  brighter,  friendlier,  more 
sure  of  herself,  not  the  coldness  of  youth,  always  ready  to 
fight,  but  more  a calm  confidence  in  herself.  She  was  not  dis- 
appointed with  life  now  because  it  would  not  shape  itself  ac- 
cording to  her  dreams,  but  accepted  each  day,  trusting  that  the 
unknown  was  right  and  could  be  turned  to  advantage. 

Why  should  not  love  come  in  the  same  way,  slowly,  like 
the  warmth  that  grows  day  by  day,  thawing  and  tempering,  and 
not  as  she  had  always  believed  it  would  come  — as  a storm  that 
would  change  her  at  once  into  a woman  she  did  not  know,  and 
whom  her  will  could  not  control. 

Helge  accepted  this  slow,  sound  growth  of  her  love  quite 
naturally  and  calmly.  Every  night  when  they  parted  her  heart 
was  filled  with  gratitude  to  him,  because  he  had  not  asked  for 
more  than  she  could  give  that  day. 

Oh,  if  they  could  have  stayed  here  till  May  — till  summer  — 
the  whole  of  summer,  so  that  their  love  might  ripen  until  they 
belonged  to  one  another  completely.  They  would  go  together  to 
the  mountains  in  the  summer;  the  marriage  could  take  place 
here  later,  or  at  home  in  the  autumn,  for  they  would  marry,  of 
course,  in  the  ordinary  way,  since  they  were  fond  of  each  other. 


1 12 


JENNY 


When  she  thought  of  her  journey  home,  she  was  almost  afraid 
that  she  would  awake  as  from  a dream,  but  she  told  herself  such 
thoughts  were  nonsense,  since  she  loved  him  and  he  loved  her. 
She  did  not  like  the  disturbing  elements  of  engagements,  visiting 
relations,  and  so  on,  though  they  were  trifles  after  all. 

Heaven  be  praised  for  this  blessed  spring  in  Rome  that  had 
brought  them  together  — they  two  alone  on  the  green  Campagna 
among  the  daisies. 

“ Don’t  you  think  Jenny  will  be  sorry  some  day  that  she  ever 
got  engaged  to  that  Gram?  ” asked  Francesca  one  evening  when 
she  was  sitting  in  Heggen’s  room. 

He  shook  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette  without  answering.  He 
discovered  all  of  a sudden  that  it  had  never  struck  him  as  in- 
discreet to  speak  about  Francesca’s  affairs  to  Jenny.  But  to 
speak  about  Jenny’s  to  Francesca  was  quite  another  matter. 

“ Can  you  understand  what  she  wants  with  him?  ” she  asked 
again. 

“ Well,  it’s  hard  to  say.  We  don’t  always  understand  what 
you  women  want  with  this  or  that  man.  We  imagine  that  we 
choose  for  ourselves,  but  we  are  more  like  our  brothers,  the 
dumb  animals,  than  we  care  to  think.  Some  say  we  are  dis- 
posed to  love  — because  of  our  natural  state  — place  and  op- 
portunity do  the  rest.” 

“ Ugh!  ” said  Francesca,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  “ If  that 
is  so,  you,  I should  say,  are  always  disposed.” 

Gunnar  laughed  reluctantly:  “ Or  I have  never  been  dis- 

posed enough;  I have  never  thought  of  any  woman  as  the  only 
one  — and  so  on,  and  that  is  an  essential  condition  in  love  — 
because  of  our  natural  state.” 

Francesca  stared  thoughtfully  in  front  of  her. 

“ I daresay  you  are  right.  But  it  happens  sometimes  that 
one  falls  in  love  with  somebody  for  some  special  reason  — not 
only  because  time  and  circumstances  are  favourable.  I for  one 
love  him  — you  know  who  I mean  — because  I don’t  under- 


JENNY 


113 

stand  him.  It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  anybody  could  really 
be  what  he  appeared  to  be.  I always  expected  something  would 
happen  that  would  explain  what  I saw.  I searched  for  the 
hidden  treasure.  You  know  how  desperately  anxious  one  gets 
to  find  the  longer  one  seeks.  Even  now,  when  I think  that  some 
other  woman  may  find  it,  I . . . But  there  are  some  who  love 
because  the  loved  one  is  perfect  to  them  — can  give  them  all 
they  need.  Have  you  ever  been  in  love  with  any  woman  to 
such  an  extent  that  you  thought  everything  in  her  was  right 
and  good  and  beautiful  — that  you  could  love  everything  in 
her? 

“ No,”  he  said  briskly. 

“ But  that  is  real  love,  don’t  you  think?  And  that  is  how  I 
thought  Jenny  would  love,  but  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  love 
Helge  Gram  like  that.” 

“ I don’t  know  him  really.  I know  only  that  he  is  not  so 
stupid  as  he  looks  — as  the  saying  goes  — I mean,  there  is  more 
in  him  than  you’d  think  at  first  sight.  I suppose  Jenny  has 
found  out  his  real  value.” 

Cesca  was  quiet.  She  lit  a cigarette  and  watched  the  flame 
of  the  wax  vesta  till  it  burnt  out. 

“ Have  you  noticed  that  he  always  asks,  ‘ Don’t  you  think?  ’ 
and  ‘ Is  it  not?  ’?  Has  it  not  struck  you  that  there  is  some- 
thing effeminate,  something  unfinished,  about  him?  ” 

“ Perhaps  so.  Possibly  that’s  what  attracted  her.  She  is 
strong  and  independent  herself,  and  might  love  a man  weaker 
than  herself.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  I think.  I don’t  believe  that  Jenny  really 
is  so  strong  and  independent.  She’s  only  been  forced  to  be. 
At  home  she  had  to  help  and  support,  and  there  was  nobody  to 
support  her.  She  had  to  take  care  of  me,  because  I needed  her 
— now  it  is  Gram.  She  is  strong  and  determined,  and  she 
knows  it,  and  nobody  asks  her  in  vain  for  help,  but  nobody 
can  go  on  for  ever  giving  help  and  never  getting  any  them- 


JENNY 


114 

selves.  Don’t  you  see  that  it  will  make  her  very  lonely,  always 
being  the  strongest?  She  is  lonely  now,  and  if  she  marries  that 
fellow  she  will  never  be  anything  else.  We  all  talk  to  her  about 
ourselves,  and  she  has  nobody  she  could  talk  to  in  the  same  way. 
She  ought  to  have  a husband  she  could  look  up  to,  whose  author- 
ity she  should  feel,  one  to  whom  she  could  say:  This  is  how 

I have  lived  and  worked  and  fought,  for  I thought  it  right,  and 
who  could  judge  if  it  was  right?  Gram  cannot,  because  he  is 
her  inferior.  How  can  she  know  if  she  has  been  in  the  right, 
when  she  has  nobody  with  authority  to  confirm  it?  Jenny 
should  ask,  ‘ Is  it  not?  ’ and  ‘ Don’t  you  think?  ’ — not  he.” 

They  sat  both  quiet  a while,  then  Heggen  said: 

“ It  is  rather  curious,  Cesca,  that  when  it  is  a question  of 
your  own  affairs  you  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of  it,  but  when 
it  concerns  somebody  else,  I think  you  often  can  see  clearer  than 
any  of  us.” 

“ Perhaps.  That  is  why  I think  sometimes  I ought  to  go 
into  a convent.  When  I am  outside  a trouble  I seem  to  un- 
derstand it  all,  but  when  I am  mixed  up  in  it  myself  I can’t  see 
a thing.” 


JENNY 


“5 


XI 

THE  juicy,  blue-grey  giant  leaves  of  the  cactus  were 
scarred  by  names,  initials,  and  hearts  carved  in  the 
flesh.  Helge  was  carving  an  H and  a J,  and  Jenny 
stood  with  her  arms  round  his  shoulder,  looking  on. 

“ When  we  come  back  here  our  initials  will  be  a brown  scar 
like  all  the  others,”  said  he.  “ Do  you  think  we  shall  be  able 
to  find  them  ? ” 

She  nodded. 

“ Among  all  the  others?  ” he  inquired  in  doubt.  “ There  are 
so  many.  We  will  go  and  look  for  them,  won’t  we?  ” 

“ Of  course  we  will.” 

“You  do  think  we  shall  come  back  here,  don’t  you?  And 
stand  as  we  are  now.”  He  put  his  arm  round  her. 

“ Yes;  I don’t  see  why  we  should  not,  dear.” 

With  arms  encircled  they  went  to  the  table  and  sat  down, 
looking  in  silence  out  over  the  Campagna. 

The  sunlight  seemed  to  move  and  the  shadows  wandered 
along  the  hillocks.  Sometimes  the  rays  came  in  thick  bunches 
between  white  clouds,  sailing  in  the  sky.  On  the  horizon, 
where  the  dark  eucalyptus  grove  by  the  Fontane  peeped  over 
the  farthest  hill,  rose  a pearl-yellow  haze,  which  would  grow 
towards  evening  and  cover  the  whole  sky. 

Far  on  the  plain  the  Tiber  hurried  to  the  sea,  golden  when 
the  sunshine  fell  on  it,  but  silvery  grey  like  the  side  of  a fish 
when  it  mirrored  the  clouds.  The  daisies  on  the  hill  looked 
like  new-fallen  snow;  on  the  field  behind  the  osteria  pale-grey, 
silky  wheat  was  coming  up,  and  two  almond  trees  were  covered 
with  light  pink  blossoms. 

“ Our  last  day  in  the  Campagna,”  said  Helge.  “ It’s  quite 
sad!  ” 


ii6 


JENNY 


“ Till  next  time,”  she  said,  kissing  him  and  trying  not  to 
give  in  to  her  own  sad  mood. 

“ Yes.  Have  you  thought  of  it,  Jenny,  that  when  we  sit 
here  again  it  cannot  be  exactly  the  same  as  now?  One  changes 
day  by  day;  we  shall  not  be  the  same  when  we  sit  here  again. 
Next  year  — next  spring  — is  not  this  spring?  — we  shall  not 
be  the  same  either.  We  may  be  just  as  fond  of  one  another, 
but  not  exactly  in  the  same  way  as  now.” 

Jenny  shivered:  “A  woman  would  never  say  that,  Helge.” 

“You  think  it  strange  that  I should  say  it?  I cannot  help 
thinking  it,  because  these  months  have  made  such  a change  in 
me  — and  in  you,  too.  Don’t  you  remember,  you  told  me  on 
that  first  morning  how  different  you  are  now  from  the  time  you 
first  came  here?  You  could  not  have  been  fond  of  me  as  I was 
when  we  first  met  — could  you,  now?  ” 

She  stroked  his  cheek : “ But,  Helge,  dear  boy,  the  great 

change  is  just  that  we  have  got  so  fond  of  one  another,  and 
our  love  will  ever  increase.  If  we  change,  it  will  be  only  be- 
cause our  love  has  grown,  and  that  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of, 
is  it?  Do  you  remember  the  day  at  Via  Cassia  — my  birthday 
— when  the  first  fine  threads  between  us  were  spun  ? They 
have  grown  stronger  now,  and  grow  stronger  every  day.  Is 
there  anything  in  that  to  make  you  afraid?  ” 

He  kissed  her  neck:  “You  are  leaving  tomorrow.  . . .” 

“ And  you  are  coming  to  me  in  six  weeks.” 

“Yes;  but  we  are  not  here.  We  cannot  go  about  in  the 
Campagna.  We  have  to  leave  in  the  midst  of  spring.” 

“It  is  spring  at  home  too  — and  larks  are  singing  there  as 
well.  Look  at  those  driving  clouds  — just  like  those  at  home. 
Think  of  Nordmarken.  We  shall  go  there  together.  Spring 
is  lovely  at  home,  with  strips  of  melting  snow  on  all  the  hills 
round  the  deep  blue  fjords,  the  last  runs  on  ski  when  the  snow 
is  melting  and  the  brooks  are  rushing  down  the  mountain-side; 
when  the  sky  is  green  and  clear  at  night  with  large,  bright 


JENNY 


117 

golden  stars,  and  the  ski  scrape  and  sing  on  the  icy  crust  of 
the  snow.  We  may  be  able  to  go  there  together  yet  this  spring.” 

“ Yes,  yes  — but  I have  been  to  all  these  places  — Vester 
Aker,  Nordmarken  — so  often  alone  that  I dread  them.  It 
seems  to  me  almost  as  if  fragments  of  my  old  discarded  souls 
were  hanging  on  every  shrub  up  there.” 

“ Hush,  hush,  dear.  I should  love  to  go  there  with  my 
dearest  friend,  after  being  there  alone  and  sad  so  many  a 
spring.” 

They  wandered  hand  in  hand  in  the  green  Campagna  — the 
haze  had  risen  towards  evening,  and  a slight  breeze  blew  in 
their  direction.  From  the  road  came  the  creaking  of  hay-carts, 
pulled  by  white  oxen,  and  the  tinkling  of  bells  on  the  red  harness 
of  mules  in  front  of  blue  vinecarts. 

Jenny  looked  tenderly  at  everything,  bidding  farewell  in  her 
mind  to  all  the  things  she  knew  so  well,  and  that  were  so  dear 
to  her.  She  had  seen  it  all  day  after  day  with  him,  without 
knowing  she  had  noticed  it,  and  now  suddenly  she  understood 
that  it  was  all  imprinted  in  her  mind  together  with  the  mem- 
ories of  those  happy  days:  here  was  the  slope,  where  the  short 
grass  had  grown  softer  and  greener  from  day  to  day,  and  the 
faithful  daisies  in  the  meagre  soil;  the  thorny  hedges  along  the 
roads  and  the  rich  green  leaves  of  the  calla  under  the  bushes; 
the  unceasing  warble  of  the  larks  in  the  sky,  and  the  innumera- 
ble concertinas  that  played  to  the  dancers  in  the  osterias  on  the 
plain  — concertinas  with  the  peculiar,  glassy  sound,  for  ever 
playing  the  same  short  Italian  tunes.  Why  must  she  leave  it 
all  now? 

The  wind  chilled  her  like  a bath,  till  her  body  felt  like  a cool 
rich  leaf,  and  she  longed  to  give  it  to  him. 

They  said  good-bye  for  the  last  time  at  her  door,  and  they 
could  not  part. 


1 18 


JENNY 


“ Oh,  Jenny,  if  only  you  could  be  mine!  ” 

She  nestled  closer  in  his  arms  and  whispered:  “ Why  not?  ” 

His  arms  closed  tight  about  her  shoulders  and  her  waist, 
but  she  trembled  the  instant  she  had  said  it.  She  did  not  know 
why  she  was  afraid;  she  did  not  want  to  be,  and  she  repented 
of  having  made  a movement,  as  if  she  wished  to  get  out  of  his 
passionate  embrace,  and  he  let  her  go. 

“No,  no;  I know  it  is  impossible.” 

“ I would  like  you  to,”  she  said  humbly. 

He  kissed  her:  “ I know.  But  I must  not.  Thank  you  for 

everything.  Oh,  Jenny,  my  Jenny!  Good-night!  Thank  you 
for  loving  me!” 

The  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks  as  she  lay  in  bed.  She 
tried  to  tell  herself  that  there  was  no  sense  in  crying  like  that, 
as  if  something  were  gone  for  ever. 


PART  TWO 


I 


THERE  was  a wait  of  several  minutes  at  Frederiks- 
hald  — time  for  a cup  of  coffee.  Jenny  hurried 
along  the  platform;  then  suddenly  she  stopped  to 
listen.  Somewhere,  near  by,  a lark  was  singing  overhead. 
Once  back  in  her  compartment  she  leaned  back  in  her  corner 
and  closed  her  eyes,  her  heart  heavy  with  longing  for  the 
south. 

The  train  rushed  past  small  rocks  of  red  granite,  torn  as  it 
were  from  the  mountain  range,  and  between  them  dazzling 
glimpses  of  deep-blue  fjords  met  the  eye.  Spruce  trees  clung 
to  the  mountain-side,  with  the  afternoon  sun  on  their  reddish 
trunks  and  dark  green,  shiny  needles.  Everything  in  nature 
seemed  conspicuously  clear  and  clean  after  its  bath  of  melting 
snow.  The  naked  branches  of  foliferous  trees  stood  out  dis- 
tinctly against  the  thin  air,  and  little  streamlets  gurgled  along- 
side the  line. 

It  was  all  so  different  from  the  southern  spring,  with  its 
slow,  sound  breathing  and  softly  blended  colours  — she  missed 
it  so  much.  The  sharp  colouring  now  before  her  eyes  reminded 
her  of  other  springs,  when  she  had  been  filled  with  longing  for 
a joy  far  different  from  her  present  restful  happiness. 

Oh!  for  the  spring  out  there,  with  the  sprouting  vegetation 
on  the  immense  plain  and  the  firm,  severe  lines  of  the  encircling 
mountains,  which  , man  has  robbed  of  their  woods,  to  build 
stone-grey  cities  on  the  spurs  and  plant  olive  groves  on  the 
slopes.  For  thousands  of  years  life  has  been  teeming  on  the 
sides  of  the  mountain,  borne  by  it  in  patience,  yet  it  raises  its 
crown  in  eternal  solitude  and  quiet  towards  heaven.  Its  proud 
outlines  and  subdued  green  and  silvery  grey  colouring,  the 

121 


122 


JENNY 


ancient  cities  and  the  slowly  advancing  spring  — in  spite  of  all 
that  can  be  said  of  the  tumultuous  life  of  the  south  — make 
one’s  own  life  run  with  a calmer,  healthier  beat,  that  meets  the 
coming  of  spring  with  greater  equanimity  than  here,  where  it 
comes  in  such  mighty  waves. 

Oh,  Helge!  She  longed  to  be  out  there  with  him.  It  was 
so  far  away,  and  so  long  since  it  all  happened.  Not  quite  a 
week,  yet  it  seemed  almost  a dream,  as  if  she  had  never  been 
away  at  all.  But  she  had  been  there  — not  here  to  see  and  feel 
how  the  white,  frosty,  peaceful  winter  yielded  and  the  dry, 
strong,  light  blue  air,  drenched  with  mist  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  hung  quivering  over  the  ground.  Every  outline  was 
blurred  or  broken,  but  the  colours  were  vivid  and  sharp  — 
naked,  as  it  were  — until  evening  came,  wrhen  even- thing  froze 
under  a sky  of  pale  green,  everlasting  light. 

— You  dear  boy  of  mine  — what  are  you  doing  now?  I 
miss  you  so,  and  I want  to  be  with  you.  I can  scarcely  believe 
that  you  are  mine,  and  I can’t  bear  to  be  alone,  longing  for  you, 
all  this  bright,  long  spring. — 

As  the  train  proceeded  on  its  way  the  scenery  changed. 
Strips  of  snow  showed  among  the  trees  and  along  the  fences; 
the  soft,  shaded  brown  of  the  faded  meadows  and  the  ploughed 
fields  met  the  eye,  and  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  toned  down 
near  the  horizon.  The  undulating  line  of  the  forest-clad  moun- 
tain slopes  lay  far  away;  the  branches  of  detached  groups  of 
trees  in  the  fields  gave  the  effect  of  lattice-work  against  the  sky. 
The  old  grey  houses  of  the  farms  shone  like  silver,  and  the  new- 
barns  were  glowing  red.  The  pine  needles  formed  an  olive 
green  background  for  the  purple  buds  of  the  beeches  and  the 
light  green  of  the  aspens. 

Such  is  spring:  glowing  colours  that  last  a little  while,  then 
everything  turns  a golden  green,  swelling  with  the  sap  of  life, 
and  ripens  in  a few  weeks  into  full  summer  — spring,  when  no 
joy  is  great  enough.  Evening  fell,  the  last  long  red  sunrays 


JENNY 


123 

vanished  behind  a ridge,  and  the  golden  light  in  the  cloudless 
sky  faded  slowly. 

When  the  train  left  Moss,  the  mountain  ridge  stood  dark 
against  the  clear  sky,  and  the  reflection  of  it  in  the  green  fjord 
was  black  and  transparent.  One  single  large,  bright  star  rose 
behind  the  range;  its  light  was  mirrored  in  a filmy  golden 
thread  on  the  water. 

It  reminded  her  of  Francesca’s  nocturnes;  she  was  fond  of 
reproducing  the  colourings  after  sunset.  Jenny  wondered  how 
things  were  going  with  Cesca,  and  she  felt  a pang  of  conscience 
when  she  realized  that  she  had  seen  very  little  of  her  in  the 
two  last  months.  Cesca  was  working  hard  and  was  perhaps 
in  difficulties,  but  all  Jenny’s  intentions  to  have  a good  long 
talk  with  her  had  come  to  nothing. 

It  was  dark  when  she  arrived  at  her  destination;  her  mother, 
Bodil,  and  Nils  were  at  the  station  to  meet  her. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  seen  her  mother  a week  ago,  but  Mrs. 
Berner  cried  when  she  kissed  her  daughter:  “Welcome  home, 

my  darling  child  — God  bless  you ! ” Bodil  had  grown,  and 
looked  very  smart  in  a long  coat  and  skirt.  Kalfatrus  greeted 
her  shyly. 

As  she  came  out  of  the  station  she  smelt  the  odour  peculiar 
to  the  railway  square  of  Christiania  — a mixture  of  sea-water, 
coal  smoke,  and  dried  herring. 

The  cab  drove  along  Carl  Johan,  past  the  old  familiar  houses. 
Mrs.  Berner  asked  about  the  journey,  and  where  she  had  spent 
the  night.  It  seemed  all  so  commonplace  to  Jenny,  as  if  she 
had  never  been  away  from  it.  The  two  young  people  on  the 
back  seat  said  never  a word. 

Outside  a garden  gate  in  Wergelandsveien  a young  couple 
stood  kissing  each  other  good-night.  A few  stars  twinkled  in 
the  clear  deep  blue  sky  above  the  naked  trees  in  the  Castle 
gardens.  A smell  of  mouldering  leaves  came  through  the  car- 
riage window,  reminding  her  of  melancholy  springs  of  old. 


JENNY 


124 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  house  where  they  lived.  There  was 
light  still  in  the  dairy  on  the  ground  floor;  the  woman  came  out 
on  the  doorstep,  when  she  heard  the  cab,  and  said:  “ Good 

evening;  welcome  back,”  to  Jenny.  Ingeborg  came  rushing 
down  the  stairs  to  embrace  her,  and  hurried  up  again,  carrying 
her  sister’s  bag.  Supper  was  laid  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
Jenny  saw  her  napkin  with  her  father’s  silver  ring  in  her  old 
place  beside  Kalfatrus.  Ingeborg  hurried  into  the  kitchen,  and 
Bodil  went  with  Jenny  to  her  old  room  at  the  back,  which  had 
been  Ingeborg’s  during  her  absence,  and  still  harboured  some 
of  her  belongings.  On  the  walls  were  some  picture  cards  of 
actors;  Napoleon  and  Madame  Récamier  in  mahogany  frames 
hung  on  either  side  of  Jenny’s  old  empire  mirror  above  the 
antique  chest  of  drawers. 

Jenny  washed  and  did  her  hair;  she  felt  an  irritation  in  her 
skin  from  the  journey,  and  passed  the  powder-puff  a couple  of 
times  over  her  face.  Bodil  sniffed  the  powder  to  see  if  it  was 
scented.  They  went  to  supper.  Ingeborg  had  a nice  hot  meal 
ready;  she  had  been  to  a cookery  school  that  winter.  In  the 
light  of  the  lamp  Jenny  saw  that  her  young  sisters  had  their 
thick  curly  hair  tied  up  with  silk  bows.  Ingeborg’s  small,  dark 
face  was  thinner,  but  she  did  not  cough  any  longer.  She  saw, 
too,  that  mamma  had  grown  older  — or  had  she  perhaps  not 
noticed,  when  she  was  at  home  and  saw  her  every  day,  that 
the  small  wrinkles  in  her  mother’s  pretty  face  increased,  that 
the  tall,  girlish  figure  stooped  a little,  and  that  the  shoulders 
lost  their  roundness?  Since  she  grew  up  she  had  always  been 
told  that  her  mother  looked  like  an  elder  and  prettier  sister  of 
hers. 

They  spoke  about  everything  that  had  happened  at  home 
during  the  year. 

“ Why  didn’t  we  take  a taxi?  ” said  Nils  suddenly.  “ How 
stupid  of  us  to  ride  home  in  an  old  four-wheeler!  ” 


JENNY  125 

“ Well,  it’s  too  late  now;  no  good  crying  over  spilt  milk,” 
laughed  Jenny. 

The  luggage  arrived;  her  mother  and  sisters  watched  the 
unpacking  with  interest.  Ingeborg  and  Bodil  carried  the  things 
into  Jenny’s  room  and  put  them  in  the  drawers;  the  embroidered 
underlinen,  which  Jenny  told  them  she  had  bought  in  Paris,  was 
handled  almost  with  reverence.  There  was  great  joy  over  the 
gifts  to  themselves:  shantung  for  summer  dresses  and  Italian 
bead  necklaces.  They  draped  themselves  in  the  stuff  before  the 
glass,  and  tried  the  effect  of  the  beads  in  their  hair.  Kalfatrus 
alone  showed  some  interest  in  her  pictures,  trying  to  lift  the  box 
that  contained  her  canvases. 

“ How  many  have  you  brought?  ” 

“ Twenty-six,  but  they  are  mostly  small  ones.” 

“ Are  you  going  to  have  a private  exhibition  — all  by  your- 
self? ” 

“ I don’t  know  yet  — I may,  some  day.” 

While  the  girls  were  washing  up  and  Nils  was  making  his 
bed  on  the  sofa,  Mrs.  Berner  and  Jenny  had  a chat  in  Jenny’s 
room  over  a cup  of  tea  and  a cigarette. 

“ What  do  you  think  of  Ingeborg?  ” asked  Mrs.  Berner  anx- 
iously. 

“ She  looks  well  and  bright,  but,  of  course,  she  will  need 
looking  after.  We  must  send  her  to  live  in  the  country  till  she 
gets  quite  strong  again.” 

“ She  is  so  sweet  and  good  always  — bright  and  full  of  fun, 
and  so  useful  in  the  house.  I am  so  anxious  about  her;  I 
think  she  has  been  out  too  much  last  winter,  dancing  too  much, 
and  keeping  late  hours,  but  I had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  her 
anything.  You  had  such  a sad  childhood,  Jenny  — I know 
you  missed  the  company  of  other  children,  and  I was  sure  you 
and  papa  would  think  it  right  to  let  the  child  have  all  the 
pleasure  she  could.”  She  sighed.  “ My  poor  little  girls,  they 


126 


JENNY 


have  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  work  and  privations. 
What  am  I to  do  if  they  get  ill  besides?  I can  do  so  little.” 

Jenny  bent  over  her  mother  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her 
pretty,  childish  eyes.  The  longing  to  give  and  to  receive  tender- 
ness, the  remembrance  of  her  early  childhood,  and  the  conscious- 
ness that  her  mother  did  not  know  her  life  — its  sorrows  before 
and  its  happiness  now  — melted  into  a feeling  of  protecting 
love,  and  she  gathered  her  mother  into  her  arms. 

“ Don’t  cry,  mother  dear.  Everything  will  come  all  right. 
I am  going  to  stay  at  home  for  the  present,  and  we  have  still 
something  left  of  Aunt  Katherine’s  money.” 

“ No,  Jenny,  you  must  keep  that  for  yourself.  I understand 
now  that  you  must  not  be  hampered  in  any  way  in  your  work. 
It  was  such  a joy  to  us  all  when  your  picture  at  the  exhibition 
was  sold  last  autumn.” 

Jenny  smiled.  The  fact  that  she  had  sold  a picture  and  had 
two  or  three  lines  in  the  papers  about  it  made  her  people  look 
upon  her  work  in  quite  a different  light. 

“ Don’t  worry  about  me,  mother.  It  is  all  right.  I may 
be  able  to  earn  something  while  I am  here.  I must  have  a 
studio,  though,”  she  said,  after  a pause,  adding  as  an  explana- 
tion: “ I must  finish  my  pictures  in  a studio,  you  see.” 

“ But  you  will  live  at  home,  won’t  you?  ” asked  the  mother 
anxiously. 

Jenny  did  not  answer. 

“ It  won’t  do,  my  dear  child,  for  a young  girl  to  live  alone  in 
a studio.” 

“ Very  well,”  said  Jenny;  “ I shall  live  at  home.” 

When  she  was  alone  she  took  out  Helge’s  photo  and  sat 
down  to  write  to  him.  She  had  been  home  only  a couple  of 
hours,  and  yet  everything  she  had  lived  through  out  there, 
where  he  was,  seemed  so  far  away  and  altogether  apart  from  her 
life  here,  before  or  now.  The  letter  was  one  single  cry  of 
yearning. 


JENNY 


127 


II 

JENNY  had  hired  a studio  and  was  arranging  it  to  her 
taste.  Kalfatrus  came  in  the  afternoons  and  helped  her. 
“ You  have  grown  so  tall  that  I almost  thought  I could 
not  call  you  by  the  old  name  any  longer.” 

The  boy  laughed. 

Jenny  asked  about  all  his  doings  while  she  had  been  away, 
and  Nils  told  her  of  the  extraordinary  adventures  he  and 
two  boy  friends  had  had  while  they  lived  for  some  weeks  in 
the  log  huts  in  Nordmarken.  As  she  listened,  it  crossed  her 
mind  that  her  trips  up  there  with  him  were  now  things  of 
the  past. 

She  went  in  the  mornings  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city  — to 
walk  by  herself  in  the  sunshine.  The  fields  lay  yellow  with 
dead  grass,  there  was  still  snow  under  the  pines,  but  tiny  buds 
were  coming  out  on  the  foliage  trees  and  from  underneath  the 
dead  leaves  peeped  downy  shoots  of  the  blue  anemone.  She 
read  Helge’s  letters  again  and  again ; she  carried  them  about  her 
wherever  she  went.  She  longed  for  him  impatiently,  madly  — 
longed  to  see  him  and  touch  him  and  convince  herself  that  he 
was  hers. 

She  had  been  back  twelve  days  and  had  not  yet  been  to  see 
his  parents;  when  he  asked  her  a third  time  if  she  had  been,  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  next  day.  The  weather  had  changed 
in  the  night;  a strong  north  wind  was  blowing,  the  sun  shone 
with  a sharp  light,  and  clouds  of  dust  were  whirling  in  the 
streets.  Then  came  a hail-storm  so  violent  that  she  had  to 
take  refuge  in  a doorway.  The  hard  white  grains  rebounded 
from  the  pavement  on  to  her  shoes  and  frivolous  summer  stock- 
ings. Next  moment  the  sun  came  out  again. 

The  Grams  lived  in  Welhavensgate.  At  the  comer  Jenny 
stopped  for  a moment  to  look  about;  the  two  rows  of  grey  houses 


128 


JENNY 


stood  almost  completely  in  the  raw,  icy  shade;  on  the  one  side 
a narrow  strip  of  sun  fell  on  the  top  floor;  she  was  pleased  to 
think  that  Helge’s  parents  lived  there. 

Her  way  to  school  had  been  along  this  street  for  four  years. 
She  knew  it  well  — the  smell  shops,  the  black  marks  of  snow 
on  the  plaster  ornaments  of  the  front  entrances,  the  plants  in 
majolica  pots  or  coloured  tissue  paper  in  the  windows,  the 
fashion-plates  against  the  panes  at  the  dressmaker’s,  and  the 
narrow  gateway  leading  to  dark  back-yards,  where  small  heaps 
of  dirty  snow  made  the  air  still  more  raw.  A tramcar  rolled 
heavily  up  the  hill. 

Close  to  where  she  stood,  in  the  other  street,  was  a large 
house  with  a dark  yard;  they  had  lived  there  when  her  step- 
father died. 

Outside  a door  with  a brass  plate,  with  “ G.  Gram  ” engraved 
on  it;  she  stood  still  for  a moment,  her  heart  beating.  She 
tried  to  laugh  at  herself  for  this  senseless  feeling  of  oppression 
each  time  she  had  to  face  anything  new,  for  which  she  had  not 
prepared  her  mind  in  advance.  Why  should  she  consider  her 
future  parents-in-law  of  such  importance?  They  could  not 
hurt  her.  . . . She  rang  the  bell. 

She  heard  somebody  coming  through  the  hall;  then  the  door 
opened.  It  was  Helge’s  mother;  she  knew  her  from  a photo- 
graph. 

“Are  you  Mrs.  Gram?  I am  Miss  Winge.” 

“ Oh  yes  — please  come  in.” 

Jenny  followed  her  through  a long,  narrow  hall  encumbered 
with  cupboards,  boxes,  and  outdoor  clothes. 

Mrs.  Gram  opened  the  door  to  the  drawing-room.  At  this 
moment  the  sun  came  in,  showing  up  the  moss-green  plush 
furniture,  curtains  and  portiéres  of  the  same  material,  and  the 
vivid  colours  of  the  carpet.  The  room  was  small  and  very 
full  — photographs  and  sundry  fancy  articles  stood  in  every 
possible  place. 


JENNY 


129 

“ I am  afraid  it  is  very  untidy  here.  I have  not  had  time  to 
dust  for  several  days,”  said  Mrs.  Gram.  “ We  don’t  use  this 
room  every  day,  and  I have  no  servant  just  now.  I had  to 
dismiss  the  one  I had  — she  was  so  dirty  and  always  answering 
back,  but  it’s  hard  to  get  another  at  all,  and  just  as  well,  for 
they’re  all  alike  as  far  as  that  goes.  Keeping  house  nowadays 
— it’s  simply  dreadful.  Helge  told  us  you  would  be  coming, 
but  we  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  seeing  you.” 

When  she  talked  and  laughed  she  showed  big,  white  front 
teeth  and  a black  hole  on  either  side,  where  two  were  missing. 

Jenny  sat  looking  at  the  woman  who  was  Helge’s  mother — • 
how  different  it  all  was  from  what  she  had  imagined. 

She  had  formed  a picture  in  her  mind  of  Helge’s  home  and 
mother  from  his  descriptions,  and  she  had  pitied  the  woman 
whom  the  husband  did  not  love  and  who  had  loved  the  chil- 
dren so  much  that  they  had  rebelled  and  longed  to  get  away 
from  this  tyrannic  mother-love  that  could  not  bear  them  ever  to 
be  anything  but  her  children.  In  her  heart  she  had  taken  the 
mother’s  part.  Men  did  not  understand  to  what  extent  a woman 
could  change  who  loved  and  got  no  love  in  return  except  the 
love  of  small  children;  they  could  not  understand  what  a mother 
would  feel  at  seeing  her  children  grow  up  and  glide  away  from 
her,  or  how  she  could  rise  in  defiance  and  anger  against  the 
inexorable  life  that  let  little  children  grow  up  and  cease  to 
feel  their  mother  everything  to  them,  while  they  were  everything 
to  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 

Jenny  had  wanted  to  love  Helge’s  mother  — and  she  could 
not  do  it;  on  the  contrary,  she  felt  an  almost  physical  antipathy 
towards  Mrs.  Gram  as  she  talked  on  and  on. 

The  features  were  the  same  as  Helge’s  — the  high,  slightly 
narrow  forehead,  the  beautifully  carved  nose,  and  the  even, 
dark  brows,  the  same  small  mouth  with  thin  lips,  and  the 
pointed  chin.  But  there  was  an  expression  about  her  mouth  as 
if  everything  she  said  were  spiteful,  and  a malicious  and  scorn- 


JENNY 


130 

ful  look  about  the  fine  wrinkles  of  the  face.  The  remarkably 
well-shaped  eyes,  bluish  in  the  white,  were  hard  and  piercing. 
They  were  large,  dark  browm  eyes  — much  darker  than  Helge’s. 

She  had  been  uncommonly  pretty;  yet  Jenny  was  convinced 
she  was  right  in  thinking  that  Gert  Gram  had  not  been  anxious 
to  marry  her.  She  was  no  lady  as  far  as  language  and  manners 
went  — but  many  pretty  girls  of  the  middle  classes  soon  turned 
harsh  and  sour  when  they  had  been  married  some  time  and  shut 
up  in  a home,  with  worries  of  housekeeping  and  servants  to 
spoil  their  life. 

“ Mr.  Gram  asked  me  to  go  and  see  you  and  give  you  the 
latest  news  about  him,”  said  Jenny.  She  felt  she  could  not 
speak  about  him  as  Helge. 

“ I understand  that  he  spent  his  time  exclusively  with  you 
lately  — he  never  mentioned  anybody  else  in  his  letters.  I 
thought  he  was  in  love  with  a Miss  Jahrman  at  first.” 

“Miss  Jahrman  is  my  friend  — there  were  several  of  us  al- 
ways together  at  first,  but  she  has  been  very  busy  lately  working 
at  a large  picture.” 

“ Is  she  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Jahrman  of  Tegneby?  Then 
I suppose  she  has  money?  ” 

“ No;  she  is  studying  on  a small  inheritance  from  her  mother. 
She  is  not  on  very  good  terms  with  her  father  — that  is  to  say, 
he  did  not  like  her  wanting  to  become  an  artist,  so  she  refused 
to  accept  any  help  from  him.” 

“ Very  stupid  of  her.  My  daughter,  Mrs.  Arnesen,  kno-ws 
her  slightly  — she  stayed  with  us  at  Christmas.  She  said  there 
were  other  reasons  why  the  Colonel  did  not  want  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  her;  she  is  said  to  be  very  good  looking,  but 
has  a bad  reputation.” 

“ There  is  not  the  least  truth  in  it,”  said  Jenny  stiffly. 

“ You  have  a good  time,  you  artists.”  Mrs,  Gram  sighed. 
“ I cannot  see  how  Helge  could  work  at  all  — it  seems  to  me 


JENNY 


131 

he  never  wrote  about  anything  else  but  going  here  and  there  in 
the  Campagna  with  you.” 

“ Oh,”  said  Jenny.  It  was  very  painful  to  hear  Mrs.  Gram 
speak  of  things  out  there.  “ I think  Mr.  Gram  worked  very 
hard,  and  one  must  have  a day  off  now  and  again.” 

“ Possibly  — but  we  housewives  must  get  along  without  it. 
Wait  till  you  get  married,  Miss  Winge.  Everybody  wants 
holidays,  it  seems  to  me.  I have  a niece  who  has  just  become  a 
school  teacher  — she  was  to  study  medicine,  but  she  was  not 
strong  enough,  so  had  to  give  it  up  and  begin  at  the  seminary 
instead.  She  is  always  having  a day  off,  it  seems  to  me,  and 
I tell  her  there  is  no  danger  of  her  being  overworked.” 

Mrs.  Gram  left  the  room,  and  Jenny  rose  to  have  a look  at 
the  pictures. 

Above  the  sofa  was  a large  view  of  the  Campagna;  one 
could  easily  see  that  Gram  had  studied  in  Copenhagen.  The 
drawing  was  good  and  thorough,  but  the  colouring  thin  and 
dry.  The  background  with  two  Italian  women  in  national  dress 
and  the  miniature  plants  round  the  tumbled  pillar  was  poor. 
The  model  study  of  a young  girl  below  was  better.  She  had  to 
smile  — no  wonder  Helge  had  found  some  difficulty  in  accept- 
ing Rome  as  it  was,  and  had  been  disappointed  at  first,  after 
having  grown  up  with  all  this  Italian  romance  on  the  walls  at 
home. 

There  were  several  well-drawn  small  landscapes  from  Italy, 
with  ruins  and  national  costumes,  and  some  copies  — Correg- 
gio’s “ Danae  ” and  Guido  Reni’s  “ Aurora  ” — which  were 
not  good,  and  other  copies  of  baroque  pictures  which  she  did 
not  know,  but  a study  of  a priest  was  good. 

There  was  also  a large  light  green  summer  landscape  — an 
experiment  in  impressionism  — but  thin  and  plain  as  far  as 
colouring  went.  The  one  over  the  piano  was  better,  the  sun 
above  the  ridge  and  the  air  quite  good.  A portrait  of  Mrs. 


JENNY 


132 

Gram  hung  beside  it  — very  good  indeed  — better  than  any  of 
the  other  things.  The  figure  and  the  hands  were  perfectly 
drawn,  the  bright  red  dress,  draped  at  the  sides,  the  openwork 
black  mittens,  and  the  high  black  hat  with  a red  wing  were  very 
effective;  the  pale  face  with  the  dark  eyes  below  the  curls  on 
her  forehead  was  good,  but  unfortunately  she  stood  as  glued  on 
to  the  grey-blue  background.  The  portrait  of  a child  drew  her 
attention  — near  the  frame  was  written  “ Bamsey,  four  years 
old.”  Was  that  pretty  little  frowning  child  in  a white  shirt 
Helge?  How  good  he  was! 

Mrs.  Gram  returned  with  some  cake  and  wine  on  a tray. 
Jenny  muttered  something  about  giving  trouble: 

“ I have  been  looking  at  your  husband’s  paintings.” 

“ I don’t  understand  much  about  it,  but  I think  they  are 
beautiful.  He  says  himself  that  they  are  no  good,  but  it  is 
only  a way  of  talking,  I think,”  she  said,  with  a short,  harsh 
laugh.  “ My  husband  is  pretty  easy-going,  you  see,  and  paint- 
ing pictures  could  not  pay  our  way  when  we  had  married  and 
had  children,  so  he  had  to  do  something  useful  besides.  But 
he  was  too  lazy  to  paint  as  well,  and  that  is  why  he  pretended 
that  he  had  no  talent.  To  me  his  pictures  are  much  prettier 
than  all  the  modern  paintings,  but  I suppose  you  think  differ- 
ently? ” 

“ Your  husband’s  pictures  are  very  pretty,  especially  your 
portrait,  which  I think  beautiful.” 

“Do  you?  — but  it  is  not  very  like  me,  and  certainly  not 
flattering.”  She  laughed  again,  the  same  slightly  bitter  laugh. 
“ I think  he  painted  much  better  before  he  began  to  imitate 
those  who  were  modern  then  — Thaulow  and  Krogh  and 
others.” 

Jenny  sipped  her  wine  in  silence  while  Mrs.  Gram  went  on 
talking. 

“ I should  like  to  ask  you  to  stay  to  lunch,  Miss  Winge, 
but  I have  to  do  everything  myself,  you  see,  and  we  were  not 


JENNY 


133 

prepared  for  your  coming.  I am  sorry,  but  I hope  you  will 
come  another  time.” 

Jenny  understood  that  Mrs.  Gram  wished  to  get  rid  of  her  — 
it  was  quite  natural,  as  she  was  without  a servant  and  had  to 
get  the  lunch  — so  she  took  her  leave.  On  the  stairs  she  met 
Mr.  Gram  — she  thought  so  at  least.  As  she  passed  him  she 
had  the  impression  that  he  looked  very  young  and  that  his  eyes 
were  very  blue. 


Ill 

TWO  days  later,  in  the  afternoon,  when  Jenny  was 
painting  in  her  studio,  Helge’s  father  called.  As  he 
stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  she  saw  that  his  hair 
was  grey  — so  grey  that  she  could  not  make  out  what  the 
original  colour  had  been,  but  he  still  looked  young.  He  was 
thin,  and  had  a slight  stoop  — not  the  stoop  of  an  old  man, 
but  rather  of  one  too  slender  for  his  height.  His  eyes  too  were 
young,  though  sad  and  tired  and  so  big  and  blue  that  they  gave 
one  a curious  impression  of  being  wide  open,  surprised,  and  at 
the  same  time  suspicious. 

“ I was  very  anxious  to  meet  you,  Jenny  Winge,”  he  said, 
“ as  you  can  understand  for  yourself.  No;  don’t  take  off  your 
overall,  and  tell  me  if  I disturb  you.” 

“ Not  in  the  least,”  said  Jenny  warmly.  She  liked  his  smile 
and  his  voice.  She  threw  her  overall  on  a chair : “ The  light 

is  almost  gone  already.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  and 
see  me.” 

“ It  is  a very  long  time  since  I was  in  a studio,”  said  Gram, 
sitting  down  on  the  sofa. 

“ Don’t  you  ever  see  any  of  the  other  painters  — your  con- 
temporaries? ” asked  Jenny. 

“ No,  never,”  he  answered  curtly. 


JENNY 


134 

“ But  ” — Jenny  bethought  herself  — “ how  did  you  find  your 
way  up  here?  Did  you  ask  them  at  home  for  my  address,  or 
at  the  artists’  club  ? ” 

Gram  laughed. 

“No;  I met  you  on  the  stairs  the  other  day,  and  yesterday, 
as  I was  going  to  the  office,  I saw  you  again.  I followed  you. 
I was  half  a mind  to  stop  you  and  introduce  myself.  Then  I 
saw  you  go  in  here,  and  I knew  there  were  studios  in  this  house, 
so  I thought  I would  pay  you  a visit.” 

“ Do  you  know,”  said  Jenny,  with  a merry  laugh,  “ Helge  too 
followed  me  in  the  street  — I was  with  a friend.  He  had  lost 
his  way  in  the  old  streets  by  the  rag  market,  and  he  came  and 
spoke  to  us.  That  is  how  we  made  his  acquaintance.  We 
thought  it  rather  cool  at  the  time,  but  it  seems  to  run  in  the 
family.” 

Gram  frowned,  and  sat  quiet  an  instant.  Jenny  realized  that 
she  had  said  the  wrong  thing,  and  was  thinking  what  to  say 
next. 

“ May  I make  you  some  tea?  ” she  asked,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer  lit  the  spirit-lamp  under  the  kettle. 

“ Miss  Winge,  you  must  not  be  afraid  that  Helge  is  like  me 
in  other  things.  I don’t  think  he  takes  after  his  father  in  any- 
thing— fortunately.”  He  laughed.  Jenny  did  not  know  what 
to  say  to  this,  and  busied  herself  with  the  tea. 

“ It’s  rather  bare  in  here,  as  you  see,  but  I live  at  home  with 
my  mother.” 

“ I see.  This  a good  studio,  is  it  not?  ” 

“ I think  so.” 

After  a moment  he  said : “ I have  been  thinking  of  you 

very  much  lately,  Miss  Winge  — I understood  from  my  son’s  let- 
ters that  you  and  he.  . . .” 

“ Yes,  Helge  and  I are  very  fond  of  each  other,”  said  Jenny, 
looking  straight  at  him.  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  an 
instant. 


JENNY 


135 

“ I know  my  son  so  little  — his  real  self  is  almost  unknown 
to  me,  but  as  you  are  fond  of  him  you  must  know  him  far 
better.  I have  always  believed  that  he  was  a good  boy,  and 
clever  in  a way,  and  the  fact  that  you  love  him  proves  to  me 
that  I have  reason  to  be  pleased  — and  proud  of  him.  Now 
that  I know  you,  I can  understand  that  he  loves  you,  and  I 
hope  he  will  make  you  happy.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Jenny,  giving  him  her  hand  again. 

“ I am  fond  of  the  boy  — he’s  my  only  son  — and  I think  he 
likes  me  too.” 

“ I know  he  does.  Helge  is  very  fond  of  you  and  of  his 
mother.”  She  blushed  as  if  she  had  been  tactless. 

“ Yes,  I believe  so;  but  he  must  have  seen  long  ago  that  his 
father  and  mother  did  not  care  for  one  another.  Helge  has  not 
had  a happy  home,  Jenny.  I don’t  mind  telling  you  this,  for 
if  you  have  not  already  understood  it,  you  will  soon  see  it 
for  yourself.  You  are  a sensible  girl.  Helge’s  experience  of 
his  own  home  will  teach  him,  perhaps,  to  value  your  love  and 
try  to  keep  it.” 

Jenny  poured  out  the  tea:  “ Helge  used  to  come  and  have 

tea  with  me  in  the  afternoon  in  Rome  — it  was  really  during 
these  visits  we  learnt  to  know  each  other,  I think.” 

“ And  you  became  fond  of  each  other?  ” 

“ No,  not  at  once.  Perhaps  we  were,  though  — even  then  — 
but  we  believed  that  we  were  great  friends  only.  He  came  to 
tea  afterwards  too,  of  course.”  They  both  smiled. 

“ Tell  me  something  about  Helge  from  the  time  he  was  a boy 
— when  he  was  quite  small,  I mean.” 

Gram  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his  head:  “No;  I cannot 

tell  you  anything  about  my  son.  He  was  always  good  and 
obedient,  and  did  well  at  school.  He  was  not  particularly 
clever,  but  he  worked  steadily  and  diligently.  He  was  very 
reserved  as  a boy  — and  later,  too,  for  that  matter  — with  me, 
anyhow.  You,  I am  sure,  have  more  to  tell  me.” 


JENNY 


136 

“ About  what?  ” 

“ About  Helge,  of  course.  Tell  me  what  he  looks  like  to 
the  girl  who  loves  him.  You  are  no  ordinary  girl  either  — 
you  are  an  artist  — and  I believe  you  are  intelligent  and  good. 

Will  you  not  tell  me  how  you  came  to  like  him  — wdiat  it  was 
that  made  you  choose  him  ? ” 

“ Well,”  she  said  laughingly  — “ it  is  not  so  easy  to  say  — 
we  just  got  fond  of  each  other.” 

He  laughed  too.  “ Well,  it  was  a stupid  question,  I admit. 

One  would  say  I had  quite  forgotten  what  it  was  to  be  young 
and  in  love,  don’t  you  think?  ” 

“ Don’t  you  think!  — Helge  says  that  so  often,  too.  It  wras 
one  of  the  things  that  made  me  like  him.  He  was  so  young. 

I saw  that  he  was  very  reserved,  but  gradually  thawed  a good 
deal.” 

“I  can  understand  he  would  — to  you.  Tell  me  more! 

Oh,  but  don’t  look  so  frightened.  I don’t  mean  that  you  should 
tell  me  the  whole  story.  Only  tell  me  something  about  yourself 
and  about  Helge,  about  your  work  — and  about  Rome.  I am 
an  old  man.  I want  to  feel  again  what  it  is  like  to  be  an  artist 
— and  free.  To  work  at  the  only  thing  you  care  for  — to  be 
young  — and  in  love  — and  happy.” 

He  stayed  for  two  hours.  When  he  was  ready  to  go  and 
stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  said  in  a low  voice:  “ It  is 

no  use  trying  to  hide  from  you  the  state  of  tilings  at  home.  k 
When  we  meet  there,  it  would  be  better  if  we  pretended  not  to 
have  met  before.  I don’t  wish  Helge’s  mother  to  know  that  I 
have  made  your  acquaintance  in  this  way  — for  your  sake,  so 
as  not  to  expose  you  to  any  disagreeable,  malicious  words  from 
her.  It  is  enough  for  her  to  know  that  I like  somebody  — 
especially  if  it  is  a woman  — to  turn  her  against  them.  You 
think  it  strange,  I am  sure,  but  you  understand,  don’t  you?” 


JENNY 


137 


“ Yes,”  said  Jenny  quietly. 

“Good-bye.  I am  happy  about  you  for  Helge’s  sake  — be- 
lieve me,  Jenny.” 

She  had  written  to  Helge  the  night  before  about  her  visit  to 
his  home,  and  when  she  read  her  letter  through,  she  realized 
how  very  cold  and  poor  was  the  part  about  her  meeting  with 
his  mother.  When  writing  to  him  that  night  she  told  him 
about  his  father’s  visit,  but  she  tore  the  letter  up  and  began 
another.  It  was  so  difficult  to  tell  him  about  his  father’s  call 
and  not  to  mention  hers  to  Mrs.  Gram.  She  did  not  like  hav- 
ing secrets  with  one  from  the  other.  She  felt  humiliated  on 
Helge’s  behalf  at  having  been  initiated  all  at  once  in  the  misery 
of  his  home,  and  she  ended  by  not  saying  a word  about  it  in  her 
letter  — it  would  be  easier  to  explain  when  he  came. 

IV 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  May  Jenny  had  not  heard  from 
Helge  for  several  days,  and  was  beginning  to  fear 
that  something  had  happened.  If  no  letter  came 
the  next  day  she  would  send  a wire.  In  the  afternoon,  when 
she  was  in  her  studio,  there  was  a knock  at  the  door.  When 
she  opened  she  was  seized  and  hugged  and  kissed  by  a man 
who  stood  on  the  landing. 

“Helge!”  She  was  overjoyed.  “Helge!  how  you  fright- 
ened me,  you  dear  boy.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Is  it  really  and 
truly  you?  ” and  she  pulled  the  travelling-cap  off  his  head. 

“ I hope  it  could  not  be  anybody  else,”  he  said  laughingly. 

“ But  what  does  all  this  mean?  ” 

“ I will  tell  you,”  he  said,  pressing  his  face  against  her  neck. 
“ I wanted  to  give  you  a surprise,  and  so  I did,  it  seems.” 
After  the  first  tender  greetings  were  over  they  sat  down  hand 
in  hand  on  the  sofa. 


JENNY 


138 

“Let  me  look  at  you,  Jenny  — oh,  how  lovely  you  are!  At 
home  they  believe  I am  in  Berlin.  I am  going  to  an  hotel 
for  the  night.  I mean  to  stay  a few  days  in  town  before  telling 
them.  Won’t  it  be  fun!  It  is  a pity  you  live  at  home  now. 
We  could  have  been  together  all  day.” 

“ When  you  knocked  I thought  it  was  your  father  coming.” 
“Father?  ” 

“Yes.”  She  felt  a little  embarrassed;  it  seemed  suddenly 
so  difficult  to  explain  the  whole  thing  to  him.  “ You  see,  your 
father  came  one  day  to  call,  and  he  has  been  to  tea  sometimes  in 
the  afternoon.  We  sit  and  talk  about  you.” 

“ But,  Jenny,  you  never  wrote  a word  about  it;  you  have 
not  even  mentioned  that  you  had  met  father.” 

“No;  I preferred  to  tell  you.  You  see,  your  mother  does 
not  know  about  it;  your  father  thought  it  better  not  to  men- 
tion it.” 

“ Not  to  me?  ” 

“ Oh  no,  we  never  meant  that.  He  believes  most  likely  that 
I have  told  you.  It  was  only  your  mother  who  was  not  to 
know.  I thought  it  was  — well,  I did  not  like  to  write  you 
that  I had  a secret  from  your  mother.  You  understand?  ” 
Helge  was  silent. 

“ I did  not  like  it  myself,”  she  continued.  “ But  what  could 
I do?  He  called  on  me,  you  see,  and  I like  him  very  much. 
I am  getting  quite  fond  of  your  father.” 

“ Father  can  be  very  attractive,  I know  — and  then  you  are 
an  artist,  too.” 

“ He  likes  me  for  your  sake,  dear.  I know  it  is  so.” 

Helge  did  not  answer. 

“ And  you  have  only  seen  mother  once?  ” 

“Yes  — but  are  you  not  hungry ? Let  me  give  you  some- 
thing to  eat.” 

“ No,  thanks.  We’ll  go  out  and  have  supper  somewhere  to- 
gether.” 


JENNY  139 

There  was  a knock  at  the  door  again.  “ It  is  your  father,” 
whispered  Jenny. 

“ Hush  — sit  still  — don’t  open ! ” 

They  heard  retreating  steps  on  the  landing.  Helge  frowned. 

“ What  is  it,  dear?  ” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know  — I hope  we  won’t  see  him.  We  don’t 
wish  to  be  disturbed,  do  we?  Not  to  see  anybody.” 

“ No,”  she  kissed  his  mouth,  and,  bending  his  head,  she 
kissed  him  again  on  the  neck  behind  the  ear. 

After  dinner,  when  they  were  having  coffee  and  liqueurs, 
Jenny  said  suddenly:  “I  cannot  get  over  this  about  Fran- 

cesca.” 

“Did  you  not  know  before?  I thought  she  had  written  to 
you.” 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 

“Never  a word  — you  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather  when  I got  her  letter.  Only  a few  words:  ‘Tomor- 

row I am  going  to  marry  Ahlin.’  I had  not  the  least  suspicion 
of  it.” 

“ Neither  had  we.  They  were  very  much  together,  of  course, 
but  that  they  were  going  to  marry  even  Heggen  did  not  know 
until  she  asked  him  to  give  her  away.” 

“ Have  you  seen  them  since?  ” 

“ No.  They  went  to  Rocca  di  Papa  the  same  day,  and  they 
were  still  there  when  I left  Rome.” 

Jenny  sat  a while  thinking. 

“ I thought  she  was  all  taken  up  with  her  work,”  she  said. 

“ Heggen  told  me  she  had  finished  the  big  picture  of  the 
gate,  and  that  it  was  very  good.  She  had  begun  several  small 
ones  too,  but  then  she  got  married  all  of  a sudden.  I don’t 
know  if  they  had  been  properly  engaged  even.  And  what  about 
you,  Jenny  — you  wrote  you  had  begun  a new  picture?” 

Jenny  led  him  to  the  easel.  The  big  canvas  showed  a street 


JENNY 


140 

with  a row  of  houses  — offices  and  factories  — in  grey-green 
and  brick-red  colouring.  To  the  right  were  some  workshops; 
behind  them  rose  the  walls  of  some  big  houses  against  a rich 
blue  sky,  with  a few  departing  rain  clouds,  leaden  grey  in 
colour,  but  shining  white  where  the  sun  came  through.  There 
was  a strong  light  on  the  shops  and  the  wall,  and  on  the  young 
foliage  of  some  trees  in  a yard.  A few  men,  some  wagons  and 
fruit  barrows  stood  about  in  the  street. 

“ I don’t  know  much  about  it,  but  is  it  not  very  good?  I 
think  it  is  fine  — it  is  beautiful.” 

“When  I was  wandering  about  waiting  for  my  own  boy  — 
after  walking  here  so  lonely  and  sad  many  a spring  before  — 
and  saw  the  maples  and  the  chestnuts  opening  out  their  tender 
leaves  against  the  smoky  houses  and  red  walls  under  a golden 
spring  sky,  I wanted  to  paint  it.” 

“ Where  did  you  get  the  view?  ” 

“ Stenersgaten.  You  see,  your  father  spoke  about  a picture 
of  you  as  a boy,  which  he  kept  in  his  office.  I went  down 
there  to  have  a look  at  it,  and  then  I saw  this  view  from  his 
office  window.  They  let  me  stand  in  the  box  factory  next  door 
to  paint  it,  but  I had  to  change  it  a bit  — compose  a little.” 

“ You  have  been  a good  deal  with  father,  I see,”  said  Helge 
after  a pause.  “ I suppose  he  is  very  interested  in  your  pic- 
ture ? ” 

“Yes.  He  often  came  over  to  look  while  I was  working  on 
it,  and  gave  me  some  good  advice.  He  knows  a lot  about 
painting,  of  course.” 

“ Do  you  think  father  had  any  talent?  ” asked  Helge. 

“ Oh  yes,  I believe  so.  The  pictures  hanging  in  your  home 
are  not  particularly  good,  but  he  let  me  see  some  studies  he 
keeps  in  his  office,  and  I think  they  show  a refined  and  quite 
original  talent.  He  would  never  have  been  a great  artist;  he 
is  too  susceptible  to  influence,  but  I think  it  is  because  of  his 


JENNY  141 

readiness  to  appreciate  and  love  the  good  work  of  others.  He 
has  a great  understanding  and  love  of  art.” 

“ Poor  father ! ” said  Helge. 

“ Yes  ” — Jenny  nestled  closer  to  him  — “ your  father  is  per- 
haps more  to  be  pitied  than  you  or  I understand.” 

They  kissed  — and  forgot  to  speak  any  more  of  Gert  Gram. 

“Your  people  don’t  know  about  it  yet?”  Helge  asked. 

“ No,”  said  Jenny. 

“ At  first,  when  I was  sending  all  my  letters  to  your  home 
address,  did  your  mother  never  ask  who  wrote  to  you  like  that 
every  day?  ” 

“ No.  My  mother  is  not  that  kind.” 

“ My  mother,”  repeated  Helge  hotly.  “ You  mean  to  say 
that  mother  would  have  done  so  — that  she  is  tactless.  I don’t 
think  you  are  just  to  my  mother  — surely,  for  my  sake,  you 
ought  not  to  speak  like  that  of  her.” 

“Helge!  What  do  you  mean?”  Jenny  looked  at  him, 
astonished.  “ I have  not  said  a word  about  your  mother.” 

“ You  said,  my  mother  is  not  like  that.” 

“ I did  not.  I said  my  mother.” 

“No;  you  said  my  mother.  You  may  not  like  her  — al- 
though I cannot  see  what  reason  you  have  so  far  not  to  — but 
you  should  remember  that  you  speak  about  my  mother,  and  that 
I am  fond  of  her  as  she  is.” 

“ Oh,  Helge!  I don’t  understand  how.  . . .”  She  stopped, 
as  she  felt  tears  filling  her  eyes.  It  was  so  strange  a thing 
for  Jenny  Winge  to  shed  tears  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  it,  and 
was  quiet. 

But  he  had  seen  it:  “ Jenny,  my  darling,  have  I hurt  you? 

Oh,  my  own  girl  — what  a misery  it  is!  You  can  see  for 
yourself  — no  sooner  have  I come  back,  but  it  begins  again.” 
He  clenched  his  hands  and  cried:  “I  hate  it  — I hate  my 

home!  ” 


142 


JENNY 


“ My  darling  boy,  you  must  not  say  so.  Don’t  let  it  upset 
you  like  that.”  She  took  him  in  her  arms.  “ Helge,  dearest, 
listen  to  me  — what  has  it  to  do  with  us  ? — it  cannot  make  any 
difference  in  us  ” — and  she  kissed  and  petted  him  till  he 
stopped  crying  and  shivering. 

V 

JENNY  and  Helge  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  his  room, 
silent,  with  arms  encircled.  It  was  a Sunday  in  June; 
Jenny  had  been  for  a walk  with  Helge  in  the  morning  and 
had  dined  at  the  Grams’.  After  dinner  they  all  sat  in  the 
drawing-room,  struggling  through  the  tedious  afternoon,  until 
Helge  got  Jenny  into  his  own  room  on  the  pretext  of  reading  her 
something  he  had  written. 

“ Ugh!  ” said  Jenny  at  last. 

Helge  did  not  ask  why  she  said  it.  He  only  laid  his  head  in 
her  lap  and  let  her  stroke  his  hair;  neither  spoke. 

Helge  sighed:  “ It  was  nicer  at  your  place  in  the  Via  Van- 

taggio,  was  it  not?  ” 

The  sound  of  plates  and  of  fat  spluttering  in  a pan  came 
from  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Gram  was  getting  supper.  Jenny 
opened  the  window  wide  to  let  out  the  smell  that  had  penetrated 
into  the  room.  She  stood  a moment  looking  out  on  the  yard. 
All  the  windows  were  kitchen  or  bedroom  windows  with  blinds 
half  drawn,  except  one  large  one  in  each  corner.  Ugh!  How 
well  she  knew  those  dining-rooms  with  a single  corner  window 
looking  on  to  the  yard,  dark  and  dismal,  with  never  a glimpse 
of  sun.  Soot  came  in  when  one  aired  the  rooms,  and  the  smell 
of  food  was  permanent.  The  playing  of  a guitar  came  from 
a servant’s  room,  and  a high  soprano  voice  -was  singing  a dole- 
ful Salvation  Army  hymn. 

The  guitar  reminded  her  of  Via  Vantaggio,  and  Cesca,  and 
Gunnar,  who  used  to  sit  on  her  sofa  with  his  legs  on  a stool, 


JENNY 


H3 

strumming  on  Cesca’s  guitar  and  singing  Cesca’s  Italian  songs. 
And  she  was  seized  with  a sudden,  desperate  longing  for  every- 
thing out  there.  Helge  came  to  her  side : “ What  are  you 

thinking  of?  ” 

“ Of  Via  Vantaggio.” 

“ Oh  yes.  What  a lovely  time  we  had  there!  ” 

She  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  drew  his  head  on  to  her 
shoulder.  It  had  struck  her  the  moment  he  spoke  that  he  was 
not  a part  of  that  which  filled  her  heart  with  longing.  She 
raised  his  head  again  and  looked  into  his  amber  brown  eyes, 
wishing  to  be  reminded  of  all  the  glorious  days  in  the  Campagna, 
when  he  lay  among  the  daisies  looking  at  her.  And  she  wanted 
to  shake  off  the  intense,  sickening  feeling  of  discomfort  which 
always  came  over  her  when  she  was  in  his  home. 

Everything  was  unbearable  here.  The  first  evening  she  was 
invited  to  the  house  after  Helge’s  official  arrival,  when  Mrs. 
Gram  had  introduced  her  to  her  husband,  she  had  to  pretend 
not  to  know  him,  while  Helge  stood  looking  on  at  this  comedy, 
knowing  they  had  deceived  his  mother.  It  was  dreadful  — 
but  something  still  worse  had  happened.  She  had  been  left 
alone  with  Gram  for  a few  minutes  and  he  mentioned  that  he 
had  been  to  the  studio  to  see  her  one  afternoon,  but  she  had  not 
been  in.  “ No,  I was  not  at  the  studio  that  day,”  she  had  an- 
swered, turning  very  red.  He  looked  at  her  in  great  surprise, 
and  almost  without  knowing  why  she  did  so  she  blurted  out: 
“ I was,  but  I could  not  let  you  in,  because  there  was  somebody 
with  me.”  Gram  had  smiled  and  said:  “ Yes,  I heard  quite 

distinctly  that  somebody  was  moving  in  the  studio.”  In  her 
confusion  she  had  told  him  that  it  was  Helge,  and  that  he  had 
been  a few  days  in  town  incognito. 

“ My  dear  Jenny,”  Gram  had  said,  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
hurt,  “ you  need  not  have  kept  it  secret  from  me.  I would 
certainly  not  have  intruded  on  you  — but  I will  say  that  it 
would  have  given  me  much  pleasure  if  Helge  had  told  me.” 


144  JENNY 

She  found  nothing  to  say,  and  he  continued:  “ I shall  be 

careful  not  to  tell  him.” 

She  had  never  meant  to  keep  it  a secret  from  Helge  that  she 
had  told  his  father,  but  she  had  not  yet  been  able  to  tell  him  — 
afraid  that  he  would  not  like  it.  She  was  worried  and  nervous 
about  all  these  mysteries,  one  after  the  other. 

It  is  true,  she  had  not  told  them  anything  at  home  either,  but 
that  was  quite  different.  She  was  not  used  to  speak  to  her 
mother  about  anything  concerning  herself;  she  had  never  ex- 
pected any  understanding  from  her,  and  had  never  asked  for 
it.  Her  mother,  besides,  was  very  anxious  about  Ingeborg  just 
at  present.  Jenny  had  got  her  to  rent  a cottage  a little  way  out 
of  town;  Bodil  and  Nils  came  to  school  by  train  every  day,  and 
Jenny  lived  in  the  studio. 

Yet  she  had  never  been  so  fond  of  her  mother  and  her  home 
as  she  was  now.  Once  or  twice  when  she  had  been  worried 
about  things,  and  out  of  spirits,  her  mother  had  tried  to  help 
and  comfort  her  without  asking  any  questions.  She  would  have 
blushed  at  the  mere  thought  of  forcing  herself  into  the  confidence 
of  any  of  her  children.  To  grow  up  in  a home  like  Helge’s 
must  have  been  a torture.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  gloom  of 
it  hung  about  them  even  when  they  were  together  elsewhere. 

“ Dearest,”  she  said,  caressing  him. 

Jenny  had  offered  to  help  Mrs.  Gram  wash  up  and  to  get  the 
supper,  but  she  had  said,  with  her  usual  smile:  “No,  my 

dear,  you  have  not  come  here  for  that  — certainly  not,  kliss 
Winge.” 

Perhaps  she  did  not  mean  it,  but  Mrs.  Gram  always  smiled 
in  a spiteful  way  when  she  talked  to  her.  Poor  woman,  it  was 
probably  the  only  smile  she  had. 

Gram  came  in;  he  had  been  for  a walk.  Jenny  and  Helge 
went  to  sit  with  him  in  his  study.  Mrs.  Gram  came  in  for  an 
instant. 

“ You  forgot  to  take  your  umbrella,  dear  — as  usual.  You 


JENNY 


H5 

were  lucky  to  escape  a shower.  Men  want  such  a lot  of  looking 
after,  you  know,”  she  said,  turning  to  Miss  Winge. 

“ You  manage  it  very  well,”  said  Gram.  His  voice  and  man- 
ners were  always  painfully  polite  when  he  spoke  to  his  wife. 

“ You  are  sitting  in  here  too,  I see,”  she  said  to  Helge  and 
Jenny. 

“ I have  noticed  that  the  study  is  the  nicest  room  in  every 
house,”  said  Jenny.  “ It  was  in  our  house,  when  my  father  was 
alive.  I suppose  it  is  because  they  are  made  to  work  it.” 

“ The  kitchen  ought  in  that  case  to  be  the  very  nicest  room 
in  every  house,”  said  Mrs.  Gram.  “ Where  do  you  think  more 
work  is  done,  Gert  — in  your  room  or  mine  ? — for  I suppose 
the  kitchen  is  my  study.” 

“ Undoubtedly  more  useful  work  is  done  in  your  room.” 

“ I believe,  after  all,  that  I must  accept  your  kind  offer  of 
help,  Miss  Winge  — it  is  getting  late.” 

They  were  at  table  when  the  bell  rang.  It  was  Mrs.  Gram’s 
niece,  Aagot  Sand.  Mrs.  Gram  introduced  Jenny. 

“ Oh,  you  are  the  artist  with  whom  Helge  spent  so  much  of 
his  time  in  Rome.  I guessed  that  much  when  I saw  you  in 
Stener sgaten  one  day  in  the  spring.  You  were  walking  with 
Uncle  Gert,  and  carried  your  painting  things.” 

“ You  must  be  mistaken,  Aagot,”  said  Mrs.  Gram.  “ When 
do  you  imagine  you  saw  them?  ” 

“ The  day  before  Intercession  Day,  as  I was  coming  back 
from  school.” 

“ It  is  quite  true,”  said  Gram.  “ Miss  Winge  had  dropped 
her  paintbox  in  the  street,  and  I helped  her  to  pick  the  things 
up.” 

“ A little  adventure,  I see,  which  you  have  not  confessed  to 
your  wife,”  said  Mrs.  Gram,  laughing.  “ I had  no  idea  you 
knew  each  other  before.” 

Gram  laughed  too:  “Miss  Winge  did  not  recognize  me. 

It  was  not  very  flattering  to  me  — but  I did  not  wish  to  remind 


JENNY 


146 

her.  Did  you  not  suspect  when  you  saw  me  that  I was  the 
kind  old  gentleman  who  had  helped  you?  ” 

“ I was  not  sure,”  said  Jenny  feebly,  her  face  turning  purple. 
“ I did  not  think  you  recognized  me.”  She  tried  to  smile, 
but  she  was  painfully  conscious  of  her  blushing  and  unsteady 
voice. 

“ It  was  an  adventure,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Gram.  “ A most 
peculiar  coincidence.” 

“ Have  I said  something  wrong  again?  ” asked  Aagot  when 
they  went  into  the  drawing-room  after  supper.  Mr.  Gram  had 
retired  to  his  study  and  Mrs.  Gram  had  gone  into  the  kitchen. 
“ It  is  detestable  in  this  house.  You  never  know  when  there’s 
going  to  be  an  explosion.  Please  explain.  I don’t  understand 
anything.” 

“ Mind  your  own  business,”  said  Helge  angrily. 

“All  right,  all  right- — -don’t  bite  me!  Is  Aunt  Rebecca 
jealous  of  Miss  Winge  now?  ” 

“ You  are  the  most  tactless  woman.  . . .” 

“ After  your  mother,  yes.  Uncle  Gert  told  me  so  one  day.” 
She  laughed.  “Have  you  ever  heard  anything  so  absurd! 
Jealous  of  Miss  Winge.”  She  looked  inquisitively  at  the  two 
others. 

“ You  need  not  bother  about  things  that  only  concern  us, 
Aagot,”  said  Helge  curtly. 

“Indeed?  I only  thought  — but  never  mind;  it  does  not 
matter.” 

“ No;  it  does  not  in  the  least.” 

Mrs.  Gram  came  in  and  lit  the  lamp.  Jenny  looked  almost 
scared  at  her  angry  face.  She  stood  a moment,  staring  with 
hard,  glittering  eyes,  then  she  bent  down  and  picked  up  Jenny’s 
scissors,  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

“ It  looks  as  if  it  were  a speciality  of  yours  to  drop  things. 
You  should  not  let  things  slip  through  your  fingers,  Miss 
Winge.  Helge  is  not  as  gallant  as  his  father,  it  seems.”  She 


JENNY 


147 

laughed.  “Do  you  want  your  lamp?  . . She  went  into 
the  study  and  pulled  the  door  after  her.  Helge  listened  an 
instant  — his  mother  spoke  in  a low  but  angry  voice  in  the 
other  room. 

“Can’t  you  leave  that  wretched  business  alone  for  once?” 
came  distinctly  through  the  door;  it  was  Gram  speaking. 

Jenny  turned  to  Helge:  “ I am  going  home  now  — I have 

a headache.” 

“ Don’t  go,  Jenny.  There  will  be  such  a scene  if  you  go. 
Stay  a little  longer.  Mother  will  only  be  more  angry  if  you 
run  away  now.” 

“ I cannot  stand  it,”  she  whispered,  nearly  crying. 

Mrs.  Gram  walked  through  the  room.  Gram  came  in  and 
joined  them. 

“ Jenny  is  tired;  she  is  going  now.  I will  see  her  home.” 

“ Are  you  going  already?  Can’t  you  stay  a little  longer?  ” 

“ I have  a headache  and  I am  tired,”  murmured  Jenny. 

“ Please  stay  a little,”  he  whispered  to  her.  “ She  ” — he 
indicated  the  kitchen  with  his  head  — “ does  not  say  anything 
to  you,  and  while  you  are  here  we  are  spared  a scene.” 

Jenny  sat  down  quietly  and  took  up  her  needlework  again. 
Aagot  crocheted  energetically  at  a hospital  shawl. 

Gram  went  to  the  piano.  Jenny  was  not  musical,  but  she 
understood  that  he  was,  and  by  and  by  she  became  calm  as  he 
played  softly  — all  for  her,  she  felt. 

“ Do  you  know  this  one,  Miss  Winge?  ” 

“ No.” 

“Nor  you  either,  Helge?  Did  you  not  hear  it  in  Rome? 
In  my  time  it  was  sung  everywhere.  I have  some  books  with 
Italian  songs.” 

He  rose  to  look  for  them;  as  he  passed  Jenny  he  whispered: 

“ Do  you  like  me  to  play?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Shall  I go  on?  ” 


148 


JENNY 


“ Yes,  please.” 

He  stroked  her  hand:  “Poor  little  Jenny.  You  had  better 

go  now  — before  she  comes.” 

Mrs.  Gram  brought  a tray  of  cakes  and  dessert. 

“ How  nice  of  you  to  play  to  us,  Gert.  Don’t  you  think  my 
husband  plays  beautifully,  Miss  Winge?  Has  he  played  to 
you  before?”  she  asked  innocently. 

Jenny  shook  her  head:  “I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Gram 

played  the  piano.” 

“ What  a beautiful  worker  you  are.”  She  looked  at  Jenny’s 
embroidery.  “ I thought  you  artists  did  not  condescend  to  do 
needlework.  It  is  a lovely  pattern  — where  did  you  get  it  ? 
Abroad,  I suppose?  ” 

“ I designed  it  myself.” 

“ Oh  well,  then  it  is  easy  to  get  nice  patterns.  Have  you 
seen  this,  Aagot?  Isn’t  it  pretty?  You  are  very  clever” — 
and  she  patted  Jenny’s  hand. 

What  loathsome  hands  she  had,  thought  Jenny  — small, 
short  fingers,  with  nails  broader  than  long,  and  splayed  out 
wide. 

Helge  and  Jenny  saw  Aagot  to  her  rooms  and  walked  slowly 
down  Pilestaedet  in  the  pale  night  of  June.  The  chestnuts  in 
bloom  along  the  hospital  wall  smelt  strongly  after  the  after- 
noon shower. 

“Helge,”  said  Jenny,  “you  must  try  and  arrange  so  that 
we  need  not  go  with  them  the  day  after  tomorrow.” 

“ It  is  impossible.  They  have  asked  you  and  you  have 
accepted.  It  is  for  your  sake  they  have  arranged  this  picnic.” 

“ But  can  you  not  understand  how  miserable  it  will  be?  I 
wish  we  could  go  alone  somewhere,  you  and  I,  as  in  Rome.” 

“ There  is  nothing  I vmuld  like  better,  but  if  w?e  refuse  to 
be  a party  to  their  midsummer  outing  it  will  only  make  tilings 
more  unpleasant  at  home.” 

“ Not  more  than  usual,  I suppose,”  she  said  scornfully. 


JENNY 


149 

“ Yes,  much  more.  Can  you  not  put  up  with  it  for  my  sake? 
Hang  it  all,  you  are  not  obliged  to  be  in  the  midst  of  it  always, 
or  to  live  and  work  there!  ” 

He  was  right,  she  thought,  and  reproached  herself  for  not 
being  patient  enough.  He,  poor  boy,  had  to  live  and  work  in 
a home  she  could  scarcely  endure  for  two  hours.  He  had 
grown  up  in  it  and  lived  his  whole  youth  in  it. 

“ I am  horrid  and  selfish,  Helge.”  She  clung  to  him,  tired, 
worried,  and  humiliated.  She  longed  for  him  to  kiss  her  and 
comfort  her.  What  did  it  really  matter  to  them?  They  had 
each  other,  and  belonged  somewhere  far  away  from  the  air  of 
hatred,  suspicion,  and  anger  in  his  home. 

The  scent  of  jessamine  was  wafted  from  the  old  gardens  that 
still  remained. 

“We  can  go  off  by  ourselves  another  day  — just  you  and 
I,”  he  said,  to  comfort  her.  “ But  how  could  you  be  so  silly?  ” 
he  said  suddenly.  “ I cannot  understand  it.  You  ought  to 
have  known  that  mother  would  get  to  know  it  — as  sure  as 
anything.” 

“ Of  course  she  does  not  believe  the  story  your  father  told,” 
said  Jenny  timidly. — Helge  sniffed. — “I  wish  he  would  tell 
her  everything  just  as  it  happened.” 

“ You  may  rest  assured  he  won’t  do  that.  And  you  cannot 
do  it  — you  must  just  go  on  pretending.  It  was  awfully  stupid 
of  you.” 

“ I could  not  help  it,  Helge.” 

“ Well  — I had  told  you  enough  about  things  at  home  for 
you  to  know.  You  could  have  prevented  father  from  coming 
again,  and  all  your  visits  to  the  office  — as  well  as  the  meetings 
in  Stenersgate.” 

“ Meetings?  — I saw  the  view  and  knew  I could  make  a good 
picture  of  it  — and  so  I have.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  you  have.  The  fault,  no  doubt,  is  mostly  father’s. 
Oh,  the  way  he  speaks  of  her.”  Helge  fumed.  “ You  heard 


JENNY 


150 

what  he  had  said  to  Aagot  — and  what  he  said  to  you  tonight. 

‘ She  ’ ” — imitating  his  father  — “ does  not  say  anything  to  you! 
Remember  it  is  our  mother  he  speaks  of  like  that.” 

“ I think  your  father  is  much  more  considerate  and  courteous 
to  your  mother  than  she  is  to  him.” 

“That  consideration  of  father’s  — I know  it.  Do  you  call 
it  considerate  the  way  he  has  won  you  over  to  his  side?  And 
his  politeness  — if  you  knew  how  I have  suffered  under  it  as  a 
child,  and  since.  He  used  to  stand  and  listen  very  politely 
without  saying  a word,  and  if  he  spoke,  it  was  in  an  icy  cold, 
extremely  civil  manner.  I almost  prefer  mother’s  loud  anger 
and  scoldings.  Oh,  Jenny,  it  is  all  so  miserable.” 

“ My  poor,  darling  boy.” 

“ It  is  not  all  mother’s  fault.  Everybody  prefers  father. 
You  do  — quite  naturally — I do  myself,  but  I understand  her 
being  as  she  is.  She  wants  to  be  first  with  everybody,  and  she 
never  is.  Poor  mother.” 

“ I am  sorry  for  her,”  said  Jenny,  but  her  heart  remained 
cold  to  Mrs.  Gram.  The  air  was  heavy  with  scent  from  leaf 
and  blossom  as  they  went  through  the  square.  On  the  seats 
under  the  trees  there  was  whispering  and  murmuring  in  the  clear 
summer  night. 

Their  solitary  steps  echoed  on  the  pavement  of  the  deserted 
business  quarter  where  the  tall  buildings  slept  — the  pale  blue 
sky  was  reflected  in  the  shop  windows. 

“May  I come  up?  ” he  whispered  as  they  stood  at  her  en- 
trance. 

“ I am  tired,”  said  Jenny  softly. 

“ I should  like  to  stay  a while  with  you  — don’t  you  think  it 
would  be  nice  to  be  by  ourselves  a little?  ” 

She  said  nothing,  but  began  to  walk  up  the  stairs,  and  he 
followed. 

Jenny  lighted  the  seven-armed  candlestick  on  her  writing- 


JENNY  151 

table,  took  a cigarette,  and  held  it  to  the  flame:  “Will  you 

smoke?  ” 

“ Thanks.”  He  took  the  cigarette  from  her  lips. 

“ The  thing  is,  you  see,”  he  said  suddenly,  “ that  there  was 
once  some  story  about  father  and  another  woman.  I was  twelve 
then,  and  I don’t  know  exactly  how  much  truth  there  was  in  it. 
But  mother!  ...  it  was  a dreadful  time.  It  was  only  because 
of  us  that  they  remained  together  — father  told  me  so  himself. 
God  knows,  I don’t  thank  him  for  it!  Mother  is  honest  at 
least,  and  admits  that  she  means  to  hold  on  to  him  by  hook  or 
by  crook  and  not  let  go.” 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  Jenny  went  and  sat  beside  him, 
kissing  his  eyes.  He  sank  on  his  knees  and  laid  his  head  in 
her  lap. 

“ Do  you  remember  the  last  evening  in  Rome,  when  I said 
good-night?  Do  you  still  love  me  as  you  did  then?  ” 

She  did  not  answer. 

“Jenny?” 

“We  have  not  been  happy  together  today  — it’s  the  first 
time.” 

He  lifted  his  head:  “ Are  you  vexed  with  me?  ” he  said  in 

a low  voice. 

“No,  not  vexed.” 

“What,  then?” 

“Nothing  — only.  . . .” 

“ Only  what?  ” 

“Tonight” — she  hesitated — “when  we  walked  here,  you 
said  we  would  go  somewhere  alone  — some  other  day.  It  was 
not  as  it  was  in  Rome;  now  it  is  you  who  decide  what  I must 
do  and  not  do.” 

“ Oh  no,  Jenny.” 

“Yes  — but  I don’t  mind;  I like  it  so.  I only  think  that, 
if  such  is  the  case,  you  ought  to  help  me  out  of  all  this  trouble.” 


JENNY 


152 

“ You  don’t  think  I did  help  you  today?  ” he  asked  slowly. 

“ Ye  — s.  Well,  I suppose  there  was  nothing  you  could  do.” 

“ Shall  I go  now  ? ” he  whispered  after  a pause,  drawing  her 
close  to  him. 

“ Do  as  you  wish,”  she  said  quietly. 

“ You  know  what  I wish.  What  do  you  wish  — most?  ” 

“ I don’t  know  what  I want.”  She  burst  into  tears. 

“ Oh,  Jenny  darling.”  He  kissed  her  softly  time  after  time. 
When  she  recovered  herself  he  took  her  hand : “I  am  going 

now.  Sleep  well,  dear;  you  are  tired.  You  must  not  be  cross 
with  me.” 

“ Say  good-night  nicely  to  me,”  she  said,  clinging  to  him. 

“ Good-night,  my  sweet,  beloved  Jenny.”  He  left,  and  she 
fell  to  crying  again. 


VI 

HESE  are  the  things  I wanted  you  to  see,”  said 
Gert  Gram,  rising.  He  had  been  on  his  knees, 
looking  for  something  on  the  lower  shelf  of  his 

Jenny  pushed  the  sketch-books  aside  and  pulled  the  electric 
lamp  nearer.  He  wiped  the  dust  from  the  big  portfolio  and 
placed  it  before  her. 

“ I have  not  shown  these  to  anybody  for  a great  many  years, 
or  looked  at  them  myself,  but  I have  been  wanting  you  to  see 
them  for  some  time  — in  fact,  from  the  day  I called  on  you  at 
your  studio.  When  you  came  here  to  look  at  Helge’s  picture 
I meant  to  ask  you  if  you  cared  to  see  them,  and  all  the  time 
you  were  working  close  by  here  I had  it  in  my  mind. 

“ It  is  strange  to  think,  Jenny,  that  here  in  this  little  office 
I have  buried  all  my  dreams  of  youth.  There  in  the  safe  they 
lie  like  corpses  in  their  tomb,  and  I myself  go  about  a dead  and 
forgotten  artist.” 


JENNY 


153 

Jenny  said  nothing.  Gram  sometimes  used  expressions  that 
were  rather  too  sentimental,  she  thought,  although  she  knew 
that  the  bitter  feelings  which  dictated  them  were  real  enough. 
In  a sudden  impulse  she  bent  forward  and  stroked  his  grey 

hair. 

Gram  bowed  his  head  as  if  to  prolong  the  slight  caress  — 
and  without  looking  at  her,  untied  the  portfolio  with  trembling 
hands. 

She  realized  in  surprise  that  her  own  hands  shook  as  she 
took  the  first  sheet  from  him,  and  she  felt  a strange  fear  and 
oppression  at  heart,  as  of  a danger  threatening.  She  was  sud- 
denly afraid  when  she  realized  that  she  did  not  want  anybody 
to  know  of  her  visit  and  that  she  dared  not  tell  Helge  about  it. 
At  the  mere  thought  of  her  lover  she  became  depressed;  she  had 
long  since  consciously  stopped  analysing  her  real  feelings  for 
him.  She  did  not  want  to  heed  the  foreboding  that  crossed 
her  mind  at  this  moment,  not  to  let  herself  be  disturbed  by 
inquiring  into  Gert  Gram’s  feelings  for  her. 

She  turned  over  the  sheets  of  the  portfolio  with  the  dreams 
of  his  youth;  it  was  a melancholy  business.  He  had  told  her 
about  this  work  often  when  they  were  alone,  and  she  understood 
that  he  thought  he  had  been  born  an  artist  for  the  sake  of  this 
and  nothing  else.  The  pictures  hanging  in  his  home  he  called 
the  amateur  work  of  a conscientious  and  diligent  pupil,  but 
these  — they  were  his  own.  They  were  illustrations  to  Land- 
stad’s  Folksongs. 

At  first  sight  these  big  sheets  with  frames  of  Roman  foliage 
and  ornate  black-letter  writing  were  good  enough.  The  colour- 
ing was  pure  and  effective  in  most  of  them,  in  some  really  fine, 
but  the  figures  in  the  vignettes  and  borders  were  without  style 
and  life,  although  the  miniature  drawings  were  correct  in  every 
detail.  Some  of  them  were  naturalistic,  others  approaching 
Italian  mediaeval  art  to  such  an  extent  that  Jenny  recognized 
certain  Annunciation  angels  and  madonnas  in  the  cloaks  of 


JENNY 


154 

knights  and  maidens,  and  the  leaves  in  gold  and  purple  she 
remembered  having  seen  in  a book  of  mass  in  the  San  Marco 
library.  The  words  of  the  songs  looked  very  strange,  hand- 
printed in  elegant  monastic  Latin  types.  In  some  of  the  larger 
full-page  illustrations  the  composition  was  baroque,  a direct 
copy  of  Roman  altar  pictures.  It  was  an  echo  of  all  he  had 
seen  and  lived  among  and  loved  — an  echo  of  the  melody  of 
Gert  Gram’s  youth;  not  a single  note  was  his  own,  but  this 
melody  of  many  notes  was  resounded  in  a particularly  soft, 
melancholy  tone. 

“ You  don’t  quite  like  them,”  he  said.  “ I can  see  you 
don’t.” 

“ Yes,  I like  them.  There  is  much  that  is  pretty'  and  delicate 
about  them,  but,  you  know  ” — she  searched  for  the  right  ex- 
pression — “ the  effect  is  a little  strange  on  us,  who  have  seen 
the  same  subjects  treated  differently  and  so  perfectly,  that  we 
cannot  conceive  them  treated  in  another  way.” 

He  sat  opposite  her,  resting  his  chin  in  his  hand.  By  and 
by  he  looked  up,  and  she  was  sad  at  heart  to  meet  his  eyes. 

“ I seem  to  remember  them  as  being  much  better  than  they 
are,”  he  said  quietly,  trying  to  smile.  “ I have  not  opened  this 
portfolio  for  many  a year,  as  I told  you.” 

“ I have  never  quite  understood  that  you  were  so  attracted 
by  the  later  renaissance  and  the  baroque,”  she  said,  to  divert 
the  conversation. 

“ I am  not  surprised,  Jenny  dear,  that  you  don’t  understand 
it.”  He  looked  into  her  face  with  a melancholy  smile. 
“ There  was  a time  when  I believed  in  myself  as  an  artist,  but 
not  so  completely  that  I did  not  have  a slight  doubt  sometimes, 
not  of  succeeding  to  express  what  I wanted,  but  as  to  what  I 
really  wanted  to  express.  I saw  that  romantic  art  had  had  its 
day  and  was  on  the  decline  — there  was  decadence  and  false- 
hood all  along  — and  yet  in  my  heart  I was  devoted  to  romance, 
not  in  painting  alone,  but  in  real  life.  I wanted  the  Sunday- 


JENNY 


155 

peasants  of  romance,  although  I had  lived  long  enough  in  the 
country  as  a boy  to  know  they  did  not  exist,  and  when  I went 
abroad  it  was  to  the  Italy  of  romance  I turned  my  steps.  I 
know  that  you  and  your  contemporaries  seek  beauty  in  things 
as  they  are,  tangible  and  real.  To  me  there  was  beauty  only 
in  the  transformation  of  reality,  which  had  already  been  done 
by  others.  In  the  eighties  there  came  a new  art-creed.  I tried 
to  adopt  it,  but  the  result  was  lip-service  only,  for  my  heart 
rebelled  against  it.” 

“ But  reality,  Gert,  is  not  a fixed  conception.  It  appears 
different  to  every  one  who  sees  it.  An  English  painter  once 
said  to  me : ‘ There  is  beauty  in  everything ; only  your  eyes 

see  it  or  do  not  see  it.’  ” 

“ I was  not  made  to  conceive  reality,  only  the  reflection  of  it 
in  the  dreams  of  others.  I lacked  entirely  the  capacity  to  form 
a beauty  for  myself  out  of  the  complexity  of  realities;  I knew 
my  own  ineffectiveness.  When  I came  to  Italy  the  baroque  took 
my  heart  and  fancy.  Can  you  not  understand  the  agony  of  my 
soul  on  realizing  my  inefficiency?  To  have  nothing  new  or 
personal  wherewith  to  fill  up  form,  only  develop  the  technique 
in  soaring  fancies,  break-neck  foreshortenings,  powerful  effects 
of  light  and  shade,  and  cunningly  thought-out  compositions. 
The  emptiness  of  it  all  is  to  be  hidden  under  the  esctasy  — con- 
torted faces,  twisted  limbs,  saints,  whose  only  true  passion  is 
the  dread  of  their  own  engulfing  doubt,  which  they  try  to  drown 
in  sickly  exaltation.  It  is  the  despair  of  the  good,  the  work 
of  an  epigon  school  wishing  to  fascinate  — mostly  themselves.” 

Jenny  nodded.  “ What  you  say,  Gert,  is  at  least  your  own 
subjective  view.  I am  not  so  sure  that  the  painters  you  speak 
of  were  not  highly  pleased  with  themselves.” 

He  laughed  and  said : “ Perhaps  they  were  — and  perhaps 

this  is  my  hobby-horse  because  for  once  I had  — as  you  say  — 
a subjective  view,” 


JENNY 


156 

“ But  the  picture  of  your  wife  in  red  is  impressionistic,  ex- 
cellent.' The  more  I look  at  it,  the  more  I like  it.” 

“ Yes,  but  that  is  a solitary  instance.”  After  a pause 
“ When  I painted  it,  she  was  all  the  world  to  me.  I was 
very  much  in  love  with  her  — and  I hated  her  intensely  al- 
ready.” 

“ Was  it  because  of  her  you  gave  up  painting?  ” asked  Jenny. 

“No.  All  our  misfortunes  are  of  our  own  making.  I know 
you  have  not  what  they  call  faith,  neither  have  I — but  I be- 
lieve in  a God,  if  you  like,  or  a spiritual  power  which  punishes 
justly. 

“ She  was  cashier  in  a shop  in  the  High  Street;  I happened 
to  see  her  there.  She  was  remarkably  pretty,  as  you  can  see 
still.  One  evening  when  she  went  home  I waited  for  her  and 
spoke  to  her.  We  made  friends  — and  I seduced  her,”  he  said 
in  a low  and  harsh  voice. 

“ And  you  married  her  because  she  was  going  to  have  a 
child  ? — I thought  so.  F or  twenty-seven  years  she  has  tor- 
mented you  in  return.  Do  you  know  what  I think  of  the  deity 
you  believe  in?  — that  it  is  rather  relentless.” 

He  smiled  wearily.  “ I am  not  quite  so  old-fashioned  as  you 
may  think.  I don’t  consider  it  a sin  if  two  young  people,  who 
love  and  believe  in  one  another,  join  their  lives  in  a lawful  or 
unlawful  way.  But  in  my  case  I was  the  abductor.  She  was 
innocent  when  I met  her  — innocent  in  every  way.  I under- 
stood her  better  than  she  did  herself.  I saw  that  she  was  pas- 
sionate, and  would  be  jealous  and  tyrannical  in  her  love,  but  I 
did  not  care.  I was  flattered  that  her  passion  was  for  me, 
that  this  beautiful  girl  was  all  mine,  but  I never  meant  to  be 
hers  alone,  the  way  I knew  she  wanted  it.  I did  not  exactly 
mean  to  leave  her,  but  I thought  I should  be  able  to  arrange 
our  life  in  such  a way  as  not  to  share  with  her  my  interests,  my 
work,  my  real  life  in  fact,  as  I knew  she  would  want  to  do.  It 
was  stupid  of  me,  knowing  that  I was  weak  and  she  strong  and 


JENNY  157 

ruthless.  I thought  that  her  great  passion  would  give  me,  who 
was  comparatively  cold,  a hold  on  her. 

“ Beyond  her  great  faculty  of  loving  there  was  nothing  in 
her.  She  was  vain  and  uneducated,  envious  and  crude.  There 
could  be  no  mental  fellowship  between  us,  but  I did  not  miss 
it;  to  possess  her  beauty  and  her  passionate  love  was  all  I 
cared  for.” 

He  rose  and  went  over  to  the  side  where  Jenny  was  sitting. 
He  took  both  her  hands  and  pressed  them  against  his  eyes. 

“ What  else  but  misery  could  I expect  from  a marriage  with 
her?  But  we  reap  as  we  sow,  and  I had  to  marry  her.  I had 
a dreadful  time  of  it.  At  first,  when  she  come  to  my  studio, 
she  was  proud  to  be  my  mistress,  arrogant  in  her  denunciation 
of  old  prejudices,  declaring  that  the  only  life  worth  living  was 
that  of  free  love.  The  moment  things  went  wrong  she  changed 
her  tone.  Then  it  was  all  about  her  respectable  family  in 
Frederikshald,  her  unstained  virtue,  and  her  good  reputation. 
Many  men  had  wanted  her,  but  she  had  not  listened  to  any- 
body, and  I was  a scoundrel  and  a wretch  if  I did  not  marry 
her  at  once.  I had  nothing  to  marry  on;  I had  neglected  my 
studies  and  had  learnt  nothing  but  painting.  Some  months 
went  by  — at  last  I had  to  apply  to  my  father.  My  people 
helped  me  through.  We  got  married,  and  two  months  later 
Helge  arrived. 

“ I had  had  hopes  of  a great  artistic  work  — my  folklore 
illustrations  — but  I had  to  give  up  my  dreams  for  the  reality 
of  making  bread  and  butter.  Once  I had  to  come  to  an  agree- 
ment with  my  creditors.  She  took  her  share  of  the  struggle  and 
poverty  loyally  and  without  complaint  — she  would  willingly 
have  starved  for  me  and  the  children.  Feeling  as  I did  to- 
wards her,  it  was  hard  to  accept  what  she  gave  in  working, 
suffering,  and  renouncing  for  my  sake. 

“ I had  to  sacrifice  everything  I loved;  she  forced  me  to  give 
it  up  inch  by  inch.  From  the  very  first  she  and  my  father  were 


JENNY 


158 

mortal  enemies.  He  could  not  bear  his  daughter-in-law,  and 
that  was  a blow  to  her  vanity,  so  she  set  about  to  make  trouble 
between  him  and  me.  My  father  was  an  official  of  the  old 
school  — a bit  narrow  and  stiff  maybe,  but  right-minded  and 
loyal,  noble  and  good  at  heart.  You  would  have  liked  him,  I 
am  sure.  We  had  been  so  much  to  one  another,  but  our  in- 
timacy was  put  a stop  to. 

“ As  for  my  painting,  I understood  that  I had  not  the  talent 
I once  had  imagined,  and  I lacked  energy  to  make  continued 
efforts  when  I did  not  believe  in  myself  — dead  tired  as  I was 
of  the  struggle  and  of  my  life  at  her  side,  which  became  more 
and  more  of  a caricature.  She  reproached  me,  but  secretly  she 
triumphed. 

“ She  was  jealous  of  the  children  too,  if  I was  fond  of  them 
or  they  were  fond  of  me.  She  would  not  share  them  with  me 
nor  me  with  them. 

“ Her  jealousy  has  grown  into  a kind  of  madness  as  the  years 
have  gone  by.  You  have  seen  it  for  yourself.  She  can  scarcely 
bear  to  see  me  in  the  same  room  with  you  even  when  Helge  is 
there.” 

Jenny  went  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders: 

“ I cannot  understand,”  she  said  — “ I really  cannot  — that 
you  have  been  able  to  stand  such  a life.” 

Gert  Gram  bent  forward,  resting  his  head  on  her  shoulder: 

“ I don’t  understand  it  myself.” 

When  he  raised  his  head  and  their  eyes  met,  she  put  her  hand 
to  his  neck  and,  overwhelmed  by  a tender  compassion,  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek  and  forehead. 

She  felt  a sudden  fear  when  she  looked  down  at  his  face 
resting  on  her  shoulder,  with  eyes  closed,  but  the  next  moment 
he  lifted  his  head  and  rose,  saying: 

“ Thank  you,  Jenny  dear.” 

Gram  put  the  drawings  back  in  their  cover  and  straightened 
the  table. 


JENNY 


159 

“ I hope  you  will  be  very,  very  happy.  You  are  so  bright 
and  courageous,  so  energetic  and  gifted.  Dear  child,  you  are 
everything  I wanted  to  be,  but  never  was.”  He  spoke  in  a low, 
absent-minded  voice. 

“ I think,”  he  said  a moment  later,  “ that  when  relations 
between  two  people  are  new,  before  their  life  is  perfectly  ac- 
corded, there  are  many  small  difficulties  to  overcome.  I wish 
you  could  live  elsewhere,  not  in  this  town.  You  should  be  alone, 
far  from  your  own  people  — at  first  at  least.” 

“ Helge  has  applied  for  a post  in  Bergen,  as  you  know,” 
said  Jenny,  and  the  feeling  of  despair  and  anguish  again  seized 
her  when  she  thought  of  him. 

“ Do  you  never  speak  to  your  mother  about  it?  Why  don’t 
you?  Are  you  not  fond  of  your  mother?  ” 

“ Of  course  I am  fond  of  her.” 

“ I should  think  it  would  be  a good  thing  to  talk  to  her  about 
it  — get  her  advice.” 

“It  is  no  good  asking  anybody’s  advice  — I don’t  like  to 
speak  to  any  one  about  these  things,”  she  said,  wishing  to  dis- 
miss the  subject. 

“No,  you  are  perhaps.  ...”  He  had  been  standing  half- 
way turned  to  the  window.  Suddenly  his  face  changed,  and 
he  whispered  in  a state  of  excitement: 

“ Jenny,  she  is  down  there  in  the  street!  ” 

“Who?” 

“ She  — Rebecca!  ” 

Jenny  rose.  She  felt  she  could  have  screamed  with  exaspera- 
tion and  disgust.  She  trembled;  every  fibre  of  her  body  was 
quivering  with  revolt.  She  would  not  be  involved  in  all  this  — 
these  wicked,  odious  suspicions,  quarrels,  spiteful  words,  and 
scenes  — no,  she  would  not. 

“Jenny,  my  child,  you  are  shivering  — don’t  be  afraid.  I 
won’t  let  her  hurt  you.” 

“Afraid?  Far  from  it.”  She  steeled  herself  at  once.  “I 


i6o 


JENNY 


have  been  here  to  fetch  you;  we  have  looked  at  your  drawings, 
and  we  are  now  going  to  your  house  to  supper.” 

“ She  may  not  have  noticed  anything.” 

“Heavens!  we  have  nothing  to  hide.  If  she  had  not  seen 
that  I am  here  she  will  soon  get  to  know  it.  I am  going  with 
you ; we  must  do  it  for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  mine  — do  you 
hear?  ” 

Gram  looked  at  her:  “ Yes,  let  us  go,  then.” 

When  they  got  down  in  the  street  Mrs.  Gram  was  gone. 
“Let  us  take  the  tram,  Gert;  it  is  late,”  she  said,  adding 
in  a sudden  temper : “ Oh,  we  must  stop  all  this  — if  only  for 

Helge’s  sake.” 

Mrs.  Gram  opened  the  door.  Gert  Gram  ventured  an  ex- 
planation; Jenny  looked  frankly  into  the  angry  eyes  of  his 
wife:  “ I am  sorry  Helge  is  out  for  the  evening.  Do  you 
think  he  will  be  home  early?  ” 

“ I am  surprised  you  did  not  remember  it,”  Mrs.  Gram  said 
to  her  husband.  “ It  is  no  pleasure  to  Miss  Winge  to  sit  here 
with  us  two  old  people.” 

“ Oh,  that  is  all  right,”  said  Jenny. 

“ I don’t  remember  hearing  that  Helge  was  going  out  this 
evening,”  said  Gram. 

“ Fancy  your  coming  without  any  needlework,”  said  Mrs. 
Gram,  when  they  were  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  after  supper. 
“You  are  always  so  industrious.” 

“ I left  the  studio  so  late,  I had  no  time  to  go  home  in  be- 
tween. Perhaps  you  could  find  me  something?” 

Jenny  conversed  with  Mrs.  Gram  about  the  price  of  em- 
broidery patterns  at  home  and  in  Paris,  and  about  books  she 
had  lent  her.  Gram  was  reading.  Now  and  again  she  felt 
his  eyes  on  her.  Helge  returned  about  eleven. 


JENNY  161 

“What  is  the  matter?”  he  asked,  when  they  walked  down 
the  stairs.  “ Has  there  been  a scene  again?  ” 

“ No,  not  at  all,”  she  replied,  in  a short,  irritated  voice.  “ I 
suppose  your  mother  did  not  like  my  coming  home  with  your 
father.” 

“ It  seems  to  me,  too,  that  you  need  not  have  done  it,”  said 
Helge  humbly. 

“ I am  going  home  by  tram.”  Overwrought,  and  unable  to 
control  herself,  she  pulled  her  arm  out  of  his.  “ I cannot  stand 
any  more  tonight,  and  I will  not  have  these  scenes  with  you 
every  time  I have  been  to  your  home.  Good-night.” 

“Jenny!  Wait!  Jenny!  . . .”  He  hurried  after  her,  but 
she  was  already  at  the  stop  when  the  tram  came,  and  got  in, 
leaving  him  without  a word. 


VII 

JENNY  walked  listlessly  about  in  her  studio  next  morning 
and  could  not  settle  down  to  anything.  The  pouring 
rain  was  beating  against  the  big  window.  She  stopped 
to  look  at  the  wet  tiles  of  the  roofs,  the  black  chimneys,  and 
the  telephone  wires,  along  which  the  small  raindrops  were 
rolling  down  like  pearls  until  they  gathered  into  one  large  one 
and  fell  off,  to  be  replaced  immediately  by  others. 

She  might  go  to  her  mother  and  the  children  in  the  country 
for  a few  days.  She  must  go  away  from  all  this.  Or  she 
might  go  to  an  hotel  in  some  other  town  and  write  for  Helge 
to  come  and  talk  things  over  with  her  quietly.  If  they  could 
only  be  together  again  — they  two  alone ! She  tried  to  think 
of  their  spring  in  Rome,  of  the  silvery  haze  over  the  mountains, 
and  of  her  own  happiness  in  it  all.  But  she  could  not  recon- 
struct the  picture  of  Helge  from  that  time  — as  he  had  appeared 
to  her  enamoured  eyes. 

Those  days  seemed  already  so  far  away;  they  were  an  isolated 


162 


JENNY 


episode  in  her  life,  and  although  she  knew  they  were  a reality 
she  could  not  connect  them  with  her  present  existence. 

Helge  — her  Helge  was  lost  to  her  in  the  home  at  Welhavens- 
gaten,  and  she  herself  could  not  fit  in  there.  It  seemed  un- 
thinkable that  she  should  have  anything  to  do  with  those  people 
now  and  in  all  the  time  to  come.  Yes  — Gram  was  right  — 
they  must  go  away. 

And  she  would  go  at  once  — before  Helge  came,  asking  for 
an  explanation  of  her  behaviour  yesterday.  She  packed  a bag, 
and  as  she  was  putting  on  her  mackintosh  somebody  knocked  at 
the  door  — again  and  again  — she  knew  it  was  Helge.  She 
stood  absolutely  still  and  waited  till  he  had  gone.  After  a 
while  she  took  her  bag,  locked  the  studio,  and  w7ent.  Half-wTay 
down  the  stairs  she  saw  a man  sitting  in  one  of  the  windows. 
It  was  Helge.  He  had  seen  her  too,  so  she  went  down  to  him. 
They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

“ Why  did  you  not  open  just  now?  ” he  asked. 

Jenny  did  not  answer. 

“ Did  you  not  hear  me  knocking?  ” He  looked  at  her  bag: 
“ Are  you  going  to  your  mother?  ” 

She  hesitated  a little,  then  said:  “No;  I thought  of  going 

to  Holmestrand  for  a few  days  and  writing  to  you  from  there 
to  come  down,  so  that  we  could  be  together  for  a time  without 
undue  interference  and  scenes.  I should  like  to  talk  matters 
over  with  you  in  peace  and  quiet.” 

“ I am  anxious  to  speak  to  you  too.  Can  we  not  go  up  to 
your  place?  ” 

She  did  not  answer  directly. 

“ Is  there  anybody  there?  ” he  asked. 

Jenny  looked  at  him:  “ Anybody  in  my  studio  when  I have 

left?  ” 

“ There  might  be  somebody  you  do  not  wish  to  be  seen 
with.” 


JENNY  163 

She  turned  purple  in  the  face:  “ Why?  How  could  I know 

that  you  were  sitting  there  spying  on  me?  ” 

“ My  dear  Jenny,  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  there  was  any 
harm  in  it,  not  on  your  part  at  least.” 

Jenny  said  nothing,  but  went  up  the  stairs  again.  In  the 
studio  she  placed  her  bag  on  the  floor,  and  without  taking  off 
her  things  stood  looking  at  Helge  while  he  hung  up  his  coat 
and  put  his  umbrella  in  the  corner. 

“ Father  told  me  this  morning  that  you  had  been  to  the  office 
and  that  mother  had  been  below  in  the  street.” 

“ Yes.  It  is  a peculiar  manner  you  people  have  — of  spy- 
ing, I mean.  I must  say,  I find  it  hard  to  get  accustomed 
to  it.” 

Helge  turned  very  red. 

“ Forgive  me,  Jenny — I had  to  speak  to  you,  and  the  porter 
said  he  was  sure  you  were  in.  You  know  very  well  that  I 
don’t  suspect  you.” 

“ Really,  I hardly  know  anything,”  she  said,  overcome  with 
it  all.  “ I cannot  bear  it  any  longer.  All  this  suspicion  and 
secrecy  and  discord.  Good  heavens,  Helge ! — can’t  you  pro- 
tect me  from  all  this  ? ” 

“ My  poor  Jenny.”  He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  where 
he  remained  standing  with  his  back  to  her.  “ I have  suffered 
more  than  you  know.  It  is  all  so  hopeless.  Can  you  not 
see  for  yourself  that  mother’s  jealousy  is  not  without  founda- 
tion? ” 

Jenny  began  to  shiver.  He  turned  round  and  saw  it. 

“ I don’t  believe  father  is  aware  of  it  himself.  If  he  were, 
he  would  not  give  in  like  that  to  his  desire  to  be  with  you. 
But  he  told  me  himself  that  we  ought  to  go  away  from  here,  both 
of  us.  I am  not  so  sure  that  your  going  away  now  is  not  his 
idea  too.” 

“No;  I decided  myself  to  go  to  Holmestrand,  but  he  spoke 


i64  JENNY 

to  me  yesterday  about  leaving  town,  when  — when  we  got 
married.” 

She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

“ Dearest  — if  it  is  as  you  say,  I will  have  to  go  away. 
Helge,  Helge!  What  shall  we  do?” 

“ I am  going,”  he  said  abruptly,  lifting  her  hands  from  his 
shoulders  and  pressing  them  against  his  face. 

They  stood  a moment  in  silence. 

“But  I must  go  too.  Can  you  not  understand?  As  long 
as  I thought  your  mother  absurd,  even  common,  I could  keep 
my  countenance,  but  now  it  is  different.  You  should  not  have 
said  it,  Helge  — even  if  you  are  mistaken.  I cannot  go  there 
any  more  with  that  on  my  mind.  Whether  she  is  justified  or 
not,  I cannot  meet  her  eyes.  I shall  not  be  myself,  and  I shall 
look  guilty.” 

“ Come,”  said  Helge,  leading  her  to  the  sofa  and  sitting  down 
beside  her. 

“ I am  going  to  ask  you  a question.  Do  you  love  me, 
Jenny?  ” 

“ You  know  I do,”  she  said  quickly,  as  if  frightened. 

He  took  her  cold  hand  between  both  of  his:  “ I know  you 

did  once  — though,  God  knows,  I never  understood  why.  But 
I knew  it  was  true  when  you  said  so.  You  were  loving  and 
kind  to  me,  and  I was  happy,  but  I was  always  afraid  of  a 
time  coming  when  you  would  not  love  me  any  longer.” 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  saying:  “ I am  very,  very  fond  of 

you,  Helge.” 

“ I know,”  he  answered,  with  a shadow  of  a smile.  “ I 
don’t  think  you  turn  cold  all  at  once  to  somebody  you  have 
loved  — you  are  not  that  kind.  I know  that  you  don’t  wish  to 
make  me  suffer,  and  that  you  will  suffer  yourself  the  moment 
you  understand  that  you  don’t  love  me  any  longer.  I love  you 
above  everything.” 

He  bent  his  head  in  tears.  She  put  her  arms  round  him. 


JENNY 


165 


“ Helge  — my  own  darling  boy.” 

He  raised  his  head  and  pushed  her  gently  away  from  him: 
“Jenny,  that  time  in  Rome  I could  have  made  you  mine  — 
you  wanted  it  yourself,  for  you  believed  that  we  could  only 
find  happiness  in  a life  together.  I was  not  so  sure,  I suppose, 
as  I did  not  risk  it.  But  here  at  home  I have  been  wanting  you 
more  than  ever.  I wanted  you  to  be  mine  entirely,  for  I was 
afraid  of  losing  you,  but  I saw  you  were  frightened  every  time 
you  understood  that  I was  longing  for  you.” 

She  looked  at  him  in  awe.  Yes,  he  was  right  — she  had  not 
wished  to  admit  it,  but  it  was  so. 

“ If  I asked  you  now  — this  moment  — would  you  consent?  ” 
Jenny  moved  her  lips;  then  came  a quick  and  firm  “ Yes.” 
Helge  smiled  sadly,  kissing  her  hand:  “ Gladly,  because 

you  wish  to  be  mine?  Because  you  cannot  conceive  of  any 
happiness  unless  you  are  mine  and  I am  yours?  Not  only  be- 
cause you  want  to  be  kind  to  me  or  don’t  want  to  break  your 
word  — tell  me  the  truth.” 

She  threw  herself  down  on  his  knee  and  sobbed:  “Let  me 

go  away  for  a time.  I want  to  go  up  in  the  mountains.  I 
must  recover  myself.  I want  to  be  your  Jenny,  as  I was  in 
Rome.  I do  want  it,  Helge,  but  I am  so  confused  now.  When 
I am  myself  again  I will  write  you  to  come,  and  I will  be 
your  own  Jenny  again  — yours  only.” 

“ I am  my  mother’s  son,”  said  Helge  quietly.  “ We  have 
got  estranged  from  one  another.  Will  you  not  convince  me 
that  I am  everything  in  the  world  to  you,  the  only  man,  more 
than  anything  else?  — more  than  your  work  and  your  friends, 
to  whom  I felt  you  belonged  more  than  to  me  — just  as  you  feel 
a stranger  among  the  people  I belong  to.” 

“ I did  not  feel  a stranger  towards  your  father.” 

“ No,  but  my  father  and  I are  strangers  to  one  another. 
There  is  one  interest  — your  work  — which  I cannot  share 
with  you  completely,  and  I know  now  that  I should  be  jealous 


i66 


JENNY 


of  it.  You  see,  I am  her  son.  If  I am  not  convinced  that  I 
am  everything  in  the  world  to  you,  I cannot  help  being  jealous 
— anxiously  fearing  that  some  day  there  might  come  another 
whom  you  could  love  more,  who  could  understand  you  better. 
I am  jealous  by  nature.” 

“ You  must  not  be  jealous,  or  everything  will  go  to  pieces. 
I cannot  bear  to  be  distrusted.  I would  rather  you  deceived  me 
than  doubted  me  — I could  better  forgive  you  that.” 

“ I could  not  ” — with  a bitter  smile. 

Jenny  stroked  the  hair  from  his  forehead  and  dried  his  eyes. 
“ We  love  one  another,  don’t  we,  Helge?  When  we  get  away 
from  all  this  and  we  both  wish  everything  to  be  well  and  right, 
don’t  you  think  we  can  make  one  another  happy?  ” 

“ I have  seen  too  much.  I dare  not  trust  my  good  intentions 
or  yours.  Others  have  built  their  hopes  on  this  and  failed  — 
I have  seen  what  a hell  two  people  can  make  life  for  each  other. 
You  will  have  to  give  me  an  answer  to  what  I asked  you.  Do 
you  love  me  ? Do  you  wish  to  be  mine  — as  you  did  in  Rome  ? 
Do  you  wish  it  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  ? ” 

“ I love  you  very  dearly,  Helge,”  she  said,  crying  piteously. 
“ Thank  you,”  he  said,  kissing  her  hand.  “ I know  you 
cannot  help  it,  poor  darling,  that  you  don’t  love  me.” 

“ Helge,”  she  said  imploringly. 

“ You  cannot  say  that  you  wish  me  to  stay  because  you  would 
not  be  able  to  live  without  me.  Dare  you  take  the  responsibility 
for  everything  that  may  happen  if  you  say  you  love  me  — only 
so  as  not  to  send  me  away  in  sadness  ? ” 

Jenny  sat  looking  down. 

Helge  put  on  his  overcoat. 

“ Good-bye,  Jenny.”  He  clasped  her  hand. 

“Are  you  going  away  from  me,  Helge?” 

“ Yes.  I am  going.” 

“ And  you  will  not  come  back?  ” 

“ Not  unless  you  can  say  what  I asked  you  to  say.” 


JENNY 


167 


“ I cannot  say  it  now,”  she  whispered  in  agony. 

Helge  touched  her  hair  lightly,  and  left. 

Jenny  remained  on  the  sofa  crying  long  and  bitterly  — her 
mind  a perfect  blank.  Tired  with  crying,  and  worn  out  after 
all  these  months  of  petty,  racking  humiliation  and  quarrels, 
she  felt  her  heart  empty  and  cold.  Helge  was  probably  right. 

After  a while  she  began  to  feel  hungry,  and,  looking  at  her 
watch,  saw  it  was  six.  She  had  been  sitting  like  this  for  four 
hours.  When  she  rose  to  put  on  her  coat  she  noticed  that  she 
had  had  it  on  all  the  time. 

By  the  door  she  perceived  a small  pool  of  water  running  on 
to  some  of  her  pictures  standing  against  the  wall.  She  went  for 
a duster  to  wipe  it  up,  and,  realizing  suddenly  that  the  pool 
was  left  from  Helge’s  umbrella,  she  leaned  her  forehead  against 
the  door  and  cried  again. 


VIII 

HER  dinner  did  not  take  long.  She  tried  to  read  a 
paper  to  divert  her  mind  for  a moment,  but  it  was  no 
no  good.  She  might  just  as  well  go  home  and  sit 

there. 

On  the  upper  landing  a man  stood  waiting.  He  was  tall 
and  thin.  She  took  the  last  steps  running,  calling  out  Helge’s 
name. 

“ It  is  not  Helge,”  came  the  answer.  It  was  his  father. 
Jenny  stood  breathless  before  him,  stretching  out  her  hands: 
“ Gert  — what  is  it?  — has  anything  happened?” 

“Hush,  hush!  ” He  took  her  hand.  “Helge  has  gone  — 
he  went  to  Kongsberg  on  a visit  to  a friend  — a schoolfellow  of 
his  who  lives  there.  Were  you  afraid,  child,  that  something  else 
had  happened  ? ” 


1 68 


JENNY 


“Oh,  I don’t  know.” 

“My  dear  Jenny  — you  are  quite  beside  yourself.” 

She  went  past  him  in  the  passage  and  opened  her  door. 
There  was  still  daylight  in  the  studio  and  Gert  Gram  looked  at 
her.  He  was  pale  himself. 

“Do  you  feel  it  so  much?  Helge  said  — at  least  that  is 
what  I understood  him  to  say  — that  you  have  agreed  to  — that 
you  both  think  you  are  not  suited  to  each  other.” 

Jenny  was  silent.  Hearing  somebody  else  say  it,  she  wanted 
to  protest.  Up  to  now  she  had  not  quite  realized  that  it  was 
all  over,  but  here  was  this  man  saying  that  they  had  agreed  to 
part,  and  Helge  had  gone  and  her  love  for  him  was  gone  — 
she  could  not  find  it  in  her  any  more.  It  was  all  over,  but, 
heavens!  how  was  it  possible,  when  she  had  not  wranted  it  to 
end? 

“Does  it  hurt  so  much?”  he  asked  again.  “Do  you  still 
love  him?  ” 

“ Of  course  I love  him.”  Her  voice  shook.  “ One  does  not 
cease  all  at  once  loving  somebody  one  has  been  very  fond  of,  and 
one  cannot  be  indifferent  to  having  caused  suffering.” 

Gram  did  not  speak  at  once;  he  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  twist- 
ing his  hat  between  his  fingers:  “ I understand  that  it  is  very 

painful  to  both  of  you,  but  don’t  you  believe,  Jenny,  when  you 
think  it  over,  that  it  is  for  the  best  ? ” 

She  did  not  reply. 

“ I cannot  tell  you  how  pleased  I was  when  I met  you  and 
saw  what  kind  of  a woman  my  son  had  won.  It  looked  to  me 
as  if  my  boy  had  got  everything  that  I have  had  to  renounce  in 
life.  You  were  so  pretty  and  refined,  I had  an  impression  that 
you  were  as  good  as  you  were  clever,  strong,  and  independent. 
And  you  were  a talented  artist  as  well,  with  no  hesitation  as 
to  your  aim  and  means.  You  spoke  of  your  work  with  jov  and 
tenderness  and  of  your  lover  in  the  same  way. 


JENNY 


169 

“Then  Helge  came  home.  You  seemed  to  change  then  — 
in  a remarkably  short  time.  The  disagreeable  things  which 
are  the  order  of  the  day  in  our  home  impressed  you  too  much; 
it  seemed  impossible  that  an  unsympathetic  future  mother-in- 
law  could  completely  spoil  the  happiness  of  a young  loving 
woman.  I began  to  fear  that  there  was  some  other  deeper 
cause  that  you  would  see  for  yourself  later  on,  and  that  per- 
haps you  realized  your  love  for  Helge  was  not  so  strong  as  you 
had  imagined.  Or  that  you  understood  you  were  not  really 
suited  to  each  other,  and  that  it  was  more  a temporary  emotion 
which  had  brought  you  together.  In  Rome  you  were  both 
alone,  young  and  free,  happy  in  your  work;  in  strange  circum- 
stances, without  the  pressure  of  everyday  ties,  and  both  with 
the  youthful  longing  for  love  in  your  hearts.  Was  that  not 
enough  to  awaken  a mutual  sympathy  and  understanding  even 
if  they  did  not  penetrate  to  the  very  inmost  of  your  being?  ” 
Jenny  stood  by  the  window  looking  at  him.  While  he  was 
speaking  she  felt  an  intense  indignation  at  his  words  — al- 
though he  might  be  right.  Yet  he  did  not  understand,  as  he 
sat  there  plucking  it  all  asunder,  what  it  was  that  really  hurt 
her: 

“ It  does  not  make  it  easier  even  if  there  is  some  sense  in 
what  you  say.  Perhaps  you  are  right.” 

“ Is  it  not  better  anyhow  that  you  have  realized  it  now  than 
if  it  had  happened  later,  when  the  bonds  would  be  stronger, 
and  the  suffering  much  greater  in  breaking  them?  ” 

“ It  is  not  that  — it  is  not  that.”  She  interrupted  herself 
suddenly:  “It  is  that  I — yes  — I despise  myself.  I have 

given  way  to  an  emotional  impulse  — lied  to  myself;  I ought 
to  have  known  if  I could  keep  my  word  before  I said:  I love. 

I have  always  hated  that  kind  of  levity  more  than  anything  in 
the  world.  Now  — to  my  shame  — I find  I have  done  that 
very  thing.” 


JENNY 


170 

Gram  looked  at  her.  Suddenly  he  turned  pale  — and  then 
crimson.  After  a while  he  said,  speaking  with  effort: 

“ I said  it  was  better  for  two  people  who  were  not  in  perfect 
understanding  to  realize  it  before  their  relations  had  made  such 
a change  in  their  lives  that  neither  of  them  — especially  she  — 
could  ever  obliterate  the  traces.  If  such  be  the  case,  they 
should  try  with  some  resignation  and  goodwill  on  either  side  to 
bring  about  harmony.  Should  this  not  be  possible,  then  there 
is  still  the  other  way  out.  I don’t  know,  of  course,  if  you  and 
Helge  — how  far  you  are  affected.  . . .” 

Jenny  laughed  scornfully: 

“ I understand  what  you  mean.  To  me  it  is  just  as  binding 
that  I have  wanted  to  be  his  — promised  it  and  cannot  keep 
my  promise  — and  just  as  humiliating  as  if  I had  really  given 
myself  to  him  — perhaps  even  more  so.” 

“ You  will  not  speak  like  that  when  once  you  meet  the  man 
you  can  love  with  true,  deep  feeling.” 

Jenny  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

“ Do  you  really  believe  in  true  and  great  love  as  you  say?  ” 
“ Yes,  I do.  I know  that  you  young  people  find  the  ex- 
pression ludicrous,  but  I believe  in  it  — for  a good  reason.” 

“ I believe  that  every  one  loves  according  to  his  individuality; 
those  who  have  a greater  mind  and  are  true  to  themselves  do 
not  fritter  themselves  away  in  little  love  affairs.  I thought 
that  I myself.  . . . But  I was  twenty-eight  when  I met  Helge, 
and  I had  never  yet  been  in  love.  I was  tired  of  waiting  and 
wanted  to  try  it.  He  was  in  love,  young,  warm-blooded,  and 
sincere  — and  it  tempted  me.  I lied  to  myself  — exactly  as 
all  other  women  do.  His  intensity  warmed  me,  and  I was 
ready  enough  to  imagine  that  I shared  it,  although  I knew  such 
an  illusion  can  only  be  kept  alive  as  long  as  there  is  no  claim 
on  one  to  prove  one’s  love. 

“ Other  women  live  under  this  illusion  quite  innocently,  be- 
cause they  do  not  know  the  difference  between  good  and  bad, 


JENNY 


171 

and  go  on  lying  to  themselves,  but  I can  plead  nothing  of  that 
kind  in  my  defence.  I am  really  just  as  small  and  selfish  and 
false  as  other  women,  and  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Gert,  I 
shall  never  know  what  that  great  and  true  love  of  yours  is.” 

“ Well,  Jenny,”  said  Gert,  with  his  same  melancholy  smile 
— “ God  knows,  I am  neither  great  nor  strong,  and  I’ve  lived 
in  lies  and  abominations  for  twelve  years.  But  I was  ten 
years  older  than  you  are  now  when  I met  a woman  who  taught 
me  to  believe  in  the  feeling  you  speak  of  with  such  scorn,  and 
my  faith  in  it  has  never  been  shaken.” 

They  were  silent  for  a moment. 

“ And  you  remained  with  her?  ” said  Jenny  at  last. 

“We  had  the  children.  I did  not  understand  then  that  I 
should  never  have  any  influence  on  my  own  children,  when 
another  woman  than  their  mother  possessed  my  whole  heart  and 
soul. 

“ She  was  married  too  — very  unhappily.  Her  husband  was 
a drunkard.  She  had  a little  girl  whom  she  could  have  brought 
with  her.  But  we  both  stayed. 

“ It  was  part  of  the  punishment,  you  see,  for  my  relations  with 
her  who  only  gratified  my  senses,  but  was  nothing  to  my  soul. 
Our  love  was  too  beautiful  to  live  on  a lie;  we  had  to  conceal 
it  like  a crime. 

“ Believe  me,  Jenny,  there  is  no  other  happiness  than  a great 
love.” 

She  went  up  to  him  and  he  rose;  they  stood  an  instant  close 
to  one  another  without  speaking. 

“ I must  go  now,”  he  said  abruptly,  in  a strained  voice.  “ I 
must  be  back  in  time,  or  she  will  suspect  something.” 

Jenny  nodded,  and  followed  him  to  the  door. 

“ You  must  not  believe  that  your  heart  is  beyond  love,”  he 
said;  “it  is  a proud  heart  — and  a warm  one.  Will  you  still 
count  me  among  your  friends,  little  girl?  ” 

“ Yes,  thank  you,”  said  Jenny,  giving  him  her  hand. 


172  JENNY 

He  bent  over  it  and  held  it  long  to  his  lips  — longer  than 
ever  before. 

IX 

GUNNAR  HEGGEN  and  Jenny  Winge  were  to  have  an 
exhibition  together  in  November.  He  came  to  town 
for  that  purpose.  He  had  been  in  the  country  that 
summer,  painting  red  granite,  green  pines,  and  blue  sky,  and 
had  lately  been  to  Stockholm,  where  he  had  sold  a picture. 

“ How  is  Cesca?  ” asked  Jenny,  when  Heggen  -was  in  her 
studio  one  morning  having  a drink. 

“ Cesca  is  all  right.”  Gunnar  took  a gulp  from  his  glass, 
smoked,  and  looked  at  Jenny,  and  she  looked  at  him. 

It  was  so  nice  to  be  together  again  and  talk  about  people 
and  things  she  had  got  so  far  away  from.  It  seemed  almost 
as  if  it  had  been  in  a remote  country  beyond  all  oceans  that 
she  had  known  him  and  Cesca,  lived  and  worked  with  them,  and 
been  happy  with  them. 

She  looked  at  his  open  sunburnt  face  and  crooked  nose;  it 
had  been  broken  when  he  was  a child.  Cesca  once  said  that 
the  blow  had  saved  Gunnar’s  face  from  being  the  most  perfect 
fashion-plate  type. 

There  was  some  truth  in  it.  Looking  at  his  features  sepa- 
rately, they  were  exactly  those  of  a rustic  Adonis.  His  brown 
hair  curled  over  a low,  broad  forehead  and  big  steely  blue 
eyes;  the  mouth  was  red,  with  full  lips  and  beautiful  white 
teeth.  His  face  and  his  strong  neck  were  tanned  by  the  sun, 
and  his  broad,  somewhat  short  body  with  well-knit  muscles 
was  almost  brutally  well  shaped.  But  the  sensual  mouth  and 
heavy  eyelids  had  a peculiarly  innocent  and  unaffected  ex- 
pression, and  his  smile  could  be  most  refined.  The  hands 
were  regular  working  hands,  with  short  fingers  and  strong 
joints,  but  the  way  he  moved  them  was  particularly  graceful. 
He  had  grown  thinner,  but  looked  very  well  and  contented, 


JENNY  173 

while  she  herself  felt  tired  and  dissatisfied.  He  had  been 
working  the  whole  summer,  reading  Greek  tragedies  and  Keats 
and  Shelley  when  he  was  not  painting. 

“ I should  like  to  read  the  tragedies  in  the  original,”  said 
Gunnar,  “ and  I am  going  to  learn  Greek  and  Latin.” 

“Dear  me!”  exclaimed  Jenny.  “I  am  afraid  there  are 
so  many  things  you  will  want  to  study  before  you  get  any  peace 
in  your  mind  that  you  will  end  by  not  painting  at  all  — except 
in  your  holidays.” 

“ I have  to  learn  those  two  languages  because  I am  going  to 
w'rite  some  articles.” 

“You!”  cried  Jenny,  laughing.  “Are  you  going  to  write 
articles  too?  ” 

“ Yes;  a long  series  of  them  about  many  different  things. 
Amongst  others,  that  we  must  introduce  Latin  and  Greek  into 
our  schools  again;  we  must  see  that  we  get  some  culture  up 
here.  We  cannot  go  on  like  this  any  longer.  Our  national 
emblem  will  be  a wooden  porringer  with  painted  roses  on  it 
and  some  carving,  which  is  supposed  to  be  a clumsy  imitation 
of  the  poorest  of  all  European  styles,  the  rococo.  That  is  how 
we  are  national  up  here  in  Norway.  You  know  that  the  best 
praise  they  can  give  anybody  in  this  country  — artist  or  other 
decent  fellow  — is  that  he  has  broken  away  — broken  away 
from  school,  tradition,  customary  manners,  and  ordinary  civ- 
ilized people’s  conception  of  seemly  behaviour  and  decency. 

“ I should  like  to  point  out  for  once  that,  considering  our 
circumstances,  it  would  be  much  more  meritorious  if  somebody 
tried  to  get  into  touch  with,  appropriate,  exchange,  and  bring 
home  to  this  hole  of  ours  some  of  the  heaped-up  treasures  in 
Europe  that  are  called  culture. 

“ What  we  do  is  to  detach  a small  part  from  a connective 
whole  — a single  ornament  of  a style,  literally  speaking  — and 
carve  and  chip  such  an  ugly  and  clumsy  copy  of  it  that  it 
becomes  unrecognizable.  Then  we  boast  that  it  is  original  or 


174  JENNY 

nationally  Norwegian.  And  it  is  the  same  with  spiritual  move- 
ments.” 

“ Yes,  but  those  sins  were  committed  even  when  classical 
education  was  the  official  foundation  of  all  education.” 

“ Quite  so.  But  it  was  only  a small  part  of  the  classics  — 
a detached  piece.  A little  Latin  grammar  and  so  on.  We 
have  never  had  a complete  picture  among  the  stories  of  our 
valued  ancestors  of  what  you  might  call  the  classical  spirit. 
As  long  as  we  cannot  have  that,  we  are  outside  Europe.  If 
we  do  not  consider  Greek  and  Roman  history  as  the  oldest 
history  of  our  own  culture,  we  have  not  got  European  culture. 
It  does  not  matter  what  that  history  was  in  reality,  but  the 
version  of  it  matters.  The  war  between  Sparta  and  Messene, 
for  instance,  was  in  fact  only  the  fights  between  some  half- 
savage tribes  a very  long  time  ago,  but  in  the  delivery  of  it, 
as  we  know  it,  it  is  the  classic  expression  for  an  impulse  which 
makes  a sound  people  let  themselves  be  killed  to  the  last  man 
rather  than  lose  their  individuality  or  the  right  to  live  their 
own  life. 

“ Bless  you,  for  many  a hundred  years  we  have  not  fought 
for  our  honour;  we  have  lived  merely  to  nurse  our  insides. 
The  Persian  wars  were  really  trifles,  but  for  a vigorous  people 
Salamis,  Thermopylae,  and  the  Acropolis  mean  the  bloom  of  all 
the  noblest  and  soundest  instincts,  and  as  long  as  these  instincts 
are  valued,  and  a people  believes  that  it  has  certain  qualities 
to  uphold,  and  a past,  a present,  and  a future  to  be  proud  of, 
these  names  will  be  surrounded  by  a certain  glamour.  And  a 
poet  can  write  a poem  on  Thermopylae  and  imprint  it  with  the 
feelings  of  his  own  time,  as  Leopardi  has  done  in  his  ‘ Ode 
to  Italy.’  Do  you  remember  I read  it  to  you  in  Rome?  ” 

Jenny  nodded. 

“ It  is  a bit  rhetorical,  but  beautiful,  is  it  not?  Do  you 
remember  the  part  about  Italia,  the  fairest  of  women,  -who 
sits  in  the  dust  chained  and  with  loosened  hair,  her  tears  drop- 


JENNY 


175 

ping  into  her  lap?  And  how  he  wishes  to  be  one  of  the  young 
Greeks  who  go  to  meet  death  at  Thermopylæ,  fearless  and 
merry  as  if  going  to  dance?  Their  names  are  sacred,  and 
Simonides  in  dying  sings  songs  of  praise  from  the  top  of 
Antelos. 

“ And  all  the  old  beautiful  tales,  symbols,  and  parables  that 
will  never  grow  old.  Think  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  — so 
simple;  the  faith  of  love  conquers  death  even;  a single  instant 
of  doubt  and  everything  is  lost.  But  in  this  country  they  know 
only  that  it  is  the  book  of  an  opera. 

“ The  English  and  the  French  have  used  the  old  symbols  in 
making  new  and  living  art.  Abroad,  in  certain  good  periods, 
there  were  people  born  with  instincts  and  feelings  so  highly 
cultivated  that  they  could  be  developed  into  an  ability  to  make 
the  fate  of  the  Atrides  understood  and  moving  as  a reality. 
The  Swedes,  too,  have  living  connections  with  the  classics  — 
but  we  have  never  had  them.  What  kind  of  books  do  we  read 
here  — and  write  ? — feminine  novels  about  sexless  fancy-fig- 
ures in  empire  dress,  and  dirty  Danish  books,  which  do  not 
interest  any  man  above  sixteen,  unless  he  is  obliged  to  wear 
an  electric  belt.  Or  about  some  green  youth,  prattling  of  the 
mysterious  eternal  feminine  to  a little  chorus  girl  who  is  im- 
pertinent to  him  and  deceives  him,  because  he  has  not  sense 
enough  to  understand  that  the  riddle  can  be  solved  by  means 
of  a good  caning.” 

Jenny  laughed.  Gunnar  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
door. 

“ Hjerrild,  I think,  is  working  at  a book  on  the  ‘ Sphinx  ’ 
at  present.  As  it  happens,  I also  knew  the  lady  once.  It  never 
went  so  far  that  I soiled  my  hands  by  giving  her  a thrashing, 
but  I had  been  fond  enough  of  her  to  feel  it  rather  badly  when 
I discovered  her  deceit.  I have  worked  it  off,  you  see.  I 
don’t  think  there  is  anything  you  cannot  get  over  in  time  by 
your  own  effort.” 


176  JENNY 

Jenny  sat  silent  for  a second,  then  said:  “Tell  me  about 

Cesca.” 

“ Well,  I don’t  think  Cesca  has  touched  a paint-brush  since 
she  married.  When  I went  to  see  them  she  opened  the  door; 
they  have  no  servant.  She  wore  a big  apron  and  had  a broom 
in  her  hand.  They  have  a studio  and  two  small  rooms;  they 
cannot  both  work  in  the  studio,  of  course,  and  her  whole  time 
is  taken  up  with  the  house,  she  said.  The  first  morning  I was 
there  she  sprawled  on  the  floor  the  whole  time.  Ahlin  was 
out.  First  she  swept,  then  she  crept  round  and  poked  under 
the  furniture  with  a brush  for  those  little  tufts  of  dust,  you 
know,  that  stick  in  the  corners.  Then  she  scrubbed  the  floor 
and  dusted  the  room,  and  you  should  have  seen  how  awkwardly 
she  did  it  all.  We  went  out  to  buy  food  together;  I was  to 
lunch  with  them.  When  Ahlin  came  home  she  retired  to  the 
kitchen,  and  when  the  lunch  was  ready  at  last,  all  her  little 
curls  were  damp  — but  the  food  was  not  bad.  She  washed 
up  in  the  most  unpractical  way,  going  to  the  sink  with  every 
article  to  rinse  it  under  the  tap.  Ahlin  and  I helped  her,  and 
I gave  her  some  good  advice,  you  know. 

“ I asked  them  to  dine  with  me,  and  Cesca,  poor  thing,  was 
very  pleased  at  not  having  to  cook  and  wash  up. 

“ If  there  are  going  to  be  children  — as  I suppose  there  are 
— you  may  depend  upon  it  that  Cesca  has  done  with  painting, 
and  it  would  be  a great  pity.  I cannot  help  thinking  it’s 
sad.” 

“ I don’t  know.  Husband  and  children  always  hold  the 
first  place  with  a woman;  sooner  or  later  she  will  long  to  have 
them.” 

Gunnar  looked  at  her  — then  sighed : 

“ If  they  are  fond  of  one  another,  that  is  to  say.” 

“Do  you  think  Cesca  is  happy  with  Ahlin?” 

“ I don’t  really  know.  I think  she  is  very  fond  of  him. 
Anyhow  it  was  ‘ Lennart  thinks  ’ and  ‘ Will  you  ? ’ and  ‘ Shall 


JENNY 


177 

I?  ’ and  ‘ Do  you  think  the  sauce  is  all  right,  Lennart?  ’ and 
so  on  the  whole  time.  She  has  taken  to  speaking  a shocking 
mixture  of  Swedish  and  Norwegian.  I must  say  that  I don’t 
quite  understand  their  relations.  He  was  very  much  in  love 
with  her,  you  remember,  and  he  in  not  despotic  or  brutal  — 
quite  the  contrary  — but  she  has  become  so  cowed  and  humble, 
our  little  Cesca.  It  cannot  be  housekeeping  worries  only,  al- 
though they  seemed  to  weigh  heavily  on  her.  She  has  no  talent 
in  that  direction,  but  she  is  a conscientious  little  thing  in  her 
way,  and  they  are  rather  badly  off,  I understand. 

“ Perhaps  she  has  made  some  great  mistake,  profited  by  the 
wedding  night,  for  instance,  to  tell  him  about  Hans  Hermann, 
Norman  Douglas,  and  Hjerrild,  and  all  the  rest  of  her  achieve- 
ments from  one  end  to  the  other.  It  might  have  been  just  a little 
overwhelming.” 

“ Cesca  has  never  concealed  anything  about  her  doings.  I 
am  sure  he  knew  all  her  story  before.” 

“ H’m,”  said  Gunnar,  mixing  himself  a fresh  drink.  “ There 
might  have  been  one  or  two  points  she  has  kept  quiet  so  far, 
and  thought  she  ought  to  tell  her  husband.” 

“ For  shame,  Gunnar,”  said  Jenny. 

“ Well  - — - you  never  really  know  what  to  think  about  Cesca. 
Her  version  of  the  Hans  Hermann  business  is  very  peculiar, 
though  I am  sure  Cesca  has  not  done  anything  that  I would 
call  wrong.  I cannot  — on  the  whole  — see  what  difference 
it  makes  to  a man  if  his  wife  has  had  a liaison  — or  several  — 
before,  provided  she  had  been  true  and  loyal  while  it  lasted. 
This  claim  of  physical  innocence  is  crude.  If  a woman  has 
been  really  fond  of  a man  and  has  accepted  his  love,  it  is  rather 
mean  of  her  to  leave  him  without  spending  a gift  on  him. 

“Naturally  I should  prefer  my  wife  never  to  have  loved 
anybody  else  before,  so,  perhaps,  when  it  is  your  own  wife  you 
may  think  differently.  Old  prejudices  and  selfish  vanity  may 
count  for  something.” 


JENNY 


178 

Jenny  sipped  at  her  drink,  and  was  on  the  point  of  saying 
something  when  she  checked  herself.  Gunnar  had  stopped 
by  the  window,  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  his  hands  in  his 
trouser  pockets: 

“Oh,  I think  it  is  sad,  Jenny  — I mean  when  once  in  a 
while  you  meet  a woman  who  is  really  gifted  in  one  way  or 
another  and  takes  a pleasure  in  developing  her  gift  by  energetic 
work  — feels  that  she  is  an  individual  who  can  decide  for  her- 
self what  is  right  or  wrong,  and  has  the  will  to  cultivate  facul- 
ties and  instincts  that  are  good  and  valuable  and  eradicate 
others  which  are  bad  and  unworthy  of  her;  and  then  one  fine 
day  she  throws  herself  away  on  a man,  gives  up  everything, 
work,  development  — herself  for  the  sake  of  a wretched  male. 
Don’t  you  think  it  sad,  Jenny?  ” 

“ It  is.  But  that  is  how  we  are  made  — all  of  us.” 

“ I don’t  understand  it.  We  men  never  do  understand  you, 
and  I think  it  is  because  we  cannot  get  it  into  our  heads  that 
individuals  who  are  supposed  to  be  reasonable  beings  are  so 
completely  devoid  of  self-esteem,  for  that  is  what  you  are. 
Woman  has  no  soul  — that  is  a true  word.  You  admit  more 
or  less  openly  that  love  affairs  are  the  only  things  that  really 
interest  you.” 

“ There  are  men  who  do  the  same  — at  least  in  their  be- 
haviour.”’ 

“ Yes,  but  a decent  man  has  no  respect  for  those  effeminates. 
Officially  at  least  we  do  not  wish  it  to  be  considered  anything 
but  a natural  diversion  beside  our  work.  Or  a capable  man 
wishes  to  have  a family  because  he  knowTs  he  can  provide  for 
more  than  himself,  and  wants  somebody  to  continue  his  work.” 
“ But  surely  woman  has  other  missions  in  life.” 

“ That  is  mere  talk  — unless  she  wants  to  be  a reasonable 
being  and  work,  and  not  content  herself  with  being  a female 
only.  What  is  the  good  of  producing  a lot  of  children  if  they 


JENNY  179 

are  not  meant  to  grow  up  for  any  other  purpose  than  continued 
production  — if  the  raw  material  is  not  to  be  used?  ” 

“ It  may  be  true  to  a certain  extent,”  Jenny  said,  smiling. 

“ I know  it  is.  I have  seen  enough  of  women  to  know,  ever 
since  I was  a youngster  and  went  to  the  workers’  academy.  I 
remember  a girl  at  one  of  the  English  classes;  she  wanted  to 
learn  the  language  to  be  able  to  talk  to  the  sailors  on  the  foreign 
men-of-war.  The  only  aim  of  the  girls  that  counted  for  any- 
thing was  to  get  a situation  in  England  or  America.  We  boys 
studied  because  we  wanted  to  learn  something  for  the  sake  of 
mental  gymnastics  and  to  complete  as  much  as  possible  what 
we  had  learnt  at  school.  The  girls  read  novels. 

“Take  socialism,  for  instance.  Do  you  think  any  woman 
has  an  idea  what  it  really  means,  unless  she  has  a husband 
who  has  taught  her  to  see?  Try  to  explain  to  a woman  why 
the  community  must  arrive  at  such  a stage  that  every  child 
born  must  have  the  opportunity  to  cultivate  its  faculties,  if  it 
has  any,  and  to  live  its  life  in  liberty  and  beauty  — if  it  can 
bear  liberty  and  has  a sense  of  beauty.  Women  believe  that 
liberty  means  no  work  and  no  restrictions  as  to  their  behaviour. 
Sense  of  beauty  they  have  none;  they  only  want  to  dress  up  in 
the  ugliest  and  most  expensive  things,  because  they  are  the 
fashion.  Look  at  the  homes  they  arrange.  The  richer,  the 
uglier.  Is  there  any  fashion,  be  it  ever  so  ugly  or  indecent, 
that  they  don’t  adopt  if  they  can  afford  it?  You  cannot  deny 
it. 

“ I won’t  mention  their  morals,  because  they  haven’t  any. 
Let  alone  your  treatment  of  us  men,  the  way  you  treat  one  an- 
other is  disgusting.” 

Jenny  smiled.  She  thought  he  was  right  in  some  things  and 
wrong  in  others,  but  she  was  not  inclined  to  discuss  them.  Yet 
she  felt  she  ought  to  say  something: 

“Aren’t  you  rather  hard  on  us?  ” she  ventured. 


i8o 


JENNY 


“ You  shall  see  it  all  in  print  one  day,”  he  said  complacently. 
“There  is  something  in  it,  but  all  women  are  not  alike; 
there  is  a difference  even  if  it  be  only  a difference  in  de- 
gree.” 

“ Certainly,  but  what  I have  said  applies  to  a certain  extent 
to  all  of  you,  and  do  you  know  why?  Because  the  principal 
thing  to  all  of  you  is  a man  — one  you  have  or  one  you  miss. 
The  only  thing  in  life  which  is  serious  and  worth  anything  — 
I mean  work  — is  never  a serious  thing  to  you.  To  the  best 
of  you  it  is  so  for  a short  time,  and  I believe  it  is  because  you 
are  sure  when  you  are  young  and  pretty  that  ‘ he  ’ will  come 
along.  But  as  time  goes  and  he  does  not  turn  up,  and  you  get 
on  in  years,  you  get  slack  and  weary  and  dissatisfied.” 

Jenny  nodded. 

“ Look  here,  Jenny.  I have  always  placed  you  on  the  same 
level  as  a first-class  man.  You  will  soon  be  twenty-nine,  and 
that  is  about  the  right  age  to  begin  independent  work.  You 
don’t  mean  to  say  that  now,  when  you  should  begin  your  in- 
dividual life  in  earnest,  you  wish  to  encumber  yourself  wnth 
husband,  children,  housekeeping,  and  all  those  things  which 
would  only  be  so  many  ties  and  a hindrance  in  your  work?  ” 
Jenny  laughed  softly. 

“ If  you  had  all  those  things  and  were  going  to  die,  sur- 
rounded by  husband  and  kiddies  and  all  that,  and  you  felt  you 
had  not  attained  what  you  knew  you  might  have  done,  don’t 
you  think  you  would  repent  and  regret?  I am  sure  you  would.” 
“ Yes,  but  if  I had  reached  the  farthest  goal  of  my  abilities 
and  I knew,  when  dying,  that  my  life  and  my  work  would  live 
a long  time  after  I had  gone  — and  I were  alone,  with  no  living 
soul  belonging  to  me,  don’t  you  think  I should  regret  and  re- 
pent then  too?  ” 

Heggen  was  silent  a moment. 


JENNY 


181 


“Yes.  Celibacy,  of  course,  is  not  the  same  to  women  as 
to  men.  It  often  means  that  they  are  kept  outside  all  those 
things  in  life  which  people  make  the  most  fuss  about  — simply 
that  whole  groups  of  organs,  mental  as  well  as  physical,  are 
wasting  away  unused.  Ugh!  Sometimes  I almost  wish  you 
would  be  a little  frivolous  for  once  and  have  done  with  it  all, 
so  that  you  could  work  in  peace  and  quiet  afterwards.” 

“ Women  who  have  been  a little  frivolous,  as  you  say,  are 
not  done  with  it.  If  they  were  disappointed  the  first  time, 
they  hope  for  better  luck  the  next.  One  does  not  settle  down 
disappointed,  and  before  you  know  it  you  have  had  many  a 
try.” 

“ Not  you,”  he  said  quickly. 

“ Thanks.  It  is  quite  new  to  hear  you  speak  like  that.  You 
have  always  said  that  when  women  begin  such  a life  they  in- 
variably end  by  being  dragged  down  completely.” 

“ Most  of  them  do.  But  there  must  be  some  exceptions.  It 
applies  to  those  who  have  no  other  instincts  in  life  than  a man 
— not  to  those  who  are  something  by  themselves  and  not  only 
of  female  sex.  Why  should  you,  for  instance,  not  be  true  and 
loyal  to  a man  even  if  you  both  saw  that  you  could  not  give  up 
everything  to  tie  yourself  down  as  his  wife  for  the  rest  of  your 
life?  Love  always  dies  sooner  or  later.  Don’t  let  yourself  be 
deceived  on  that  point.” 

“Yes;  we  know  it  — but  still  we  won’t  believe  it.”  She 
laughed.  “No,  my  friend  — either  we  love  and  believe  it  is 
the  only  thing  worth  living  for,  or  we  do  not  love  — and  are 
unhappy  because  we  don’t.” 

“ Jenny,  I don’t  like  to  hear  you  speak  like  that.  No;  to 
feel  oneself  in  full  vigour,  with  all  faculties  alert,  ready  to 
adopt  and  appropriate,  to  adapt  and  produce,  make  the  utmost 
possible  of  oneself  — work  — that  is  the  only  thing  worth  living 
for,  believe  me.” 


182 


JENNY 


X 

JENNY  bent  over  Gert  Gram’s  chrysanthemums:  “ I am 

so  glad  you  like  my  pictures.” 

“ Yes,  I like  them  very  much,  especially  the  one  of 
the  young  girl  with  the  corals  — as  I told  you  already.” 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 

“ I think  the  colouring  is  so  lovely,”  said  Gram. 

“ It  is  not  well  finished.  The  scarf  and  the  dress  should 
have  been  more  thoroughly  worked  up,  but  when  I was  painting 
it  both  Cesca  and  I were  distracted  by  other  things.” 

After  a while  she  asked: 

“ Do  you  hear  from  Helge?  How  is  he?  ” 

“ He  does  not  write  much.  He  is  working  at  the  essay  for 
his  doctor  of  science  degree  — you  know  he  prepared  himself 
for  it  in  Rome.  He  says  he  is  all  right.  He  does  not  write  to 
his  mother  at  all,  and  she,  of  course,  is  very  vexed  about  it. 
She  has  not  improved  as  a companion,  I am  sorry  to  say,  but 
she  is  not  happy,  poor  thing,  at  present.” 

Jenny  moved  the  flowers  to  her  writing-table  and  began  to 
arrange  them: 

“ I am  glad  Helge  is  working  again.  He  did  not  get  much 
done  in  the  summer.” 

“ Neither  did  you,  dear.” 

“ No,  it  is  true,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  I have  not  been 
able  to  start  yet.  But  I don’t  feel  the  least  inclined  to,  and  I 
was  going  to  begin  etching  this  winter,  but.  . . .” 

“ Don’t  you  think  it  quite  natural  that  a disappointment  like 
yours  should  take  some  time  to  get  over?  Your  exhibition  is 
a success,  and  has  been  well  spoken  of  in  the  papers.  Don’t 
you  think  that  is  enough  to  make  you  want  to  work  again? 
You  have  got  a bid  for  the  Aventine  picture  already  — are  you 
going  to  accept  it  ? ” 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 


JENNY 


183 

“ Of  course.  I am  obliged  to  accept.  They  always  need 
money  at  home,  as  you  know.  Besides,  I must  go  abroad;  it  is 
not  good  for  me  to  stay  here  long.” 

“Do  you  want  to  go  abroad?”  said  Gram  gently,  looking 
down.  “ Well,  I suppose  you  are;  it  is  only  natural.” 

“ Oh,  this  exhibition,”  said  Jenny,  sitting  down  in  the  rock- 
ing-chair — “ all  my  pictures  were  painted  such  a long  time 
ago,  it  seems  to  me,  even  the  recent  ones.  The  sketch  of  the 
Aventine  was  finished  the  day  I met  Helge,  and  I painted  the 
picture  while  we  were  together  — that  of  Cesca  as  well.  And 
the  one  from  Stenersgaten  in  your  place,  while  I was  waiting 
for  him  to  come  home.  I have  done  nothing  since.  Ugh! 
So  Helge  is  at  work  again  ? ” 

“It  is  only  natural,  my  dear,  that  an  experience  like  yours 
should  leave  deeper  traces  in  a woman.” 

“ Oh  yes,  yes  — a woman;  that  is  the  whole  misery  of  it.  It 
is  just  like  a woman  to  become  uninterested  and  utterly  lazy 
because  of  a love  that  does  not  even  exist.” 

“ My  dear  Jenny,”  said  Gram,  “ I think  it  quite  natural  that 
it  should  take  some  time  for  you  to  get  over  it  — to  get  beyond 
it,  as  it  were;  one  always  does,  and  then  one  understands  that 
the  experience  has  not  been  in  vain,  but  that  one’s  soul  is  the 
richer  for  it  in  some  way  or  other.” 

Jenny  did  not  reply. 

“ I am  sure  there  is  much  you  would  not  like  to  have  missed 
— all  the  happy,  warm,  sunny  days  with  your  friend  in  that 
beautiful  country.  Am  I not  right  ? ” 

“ Will  you  tell  me  one  thing,  Gert?  — is  it  your  own  personal 
experience  that  you  have  been  able  to  enrich  your  soul,  as  you 
say,  by  the  incidents  of  your  life?  ” 

He  gave  a start  as  if  hurt  and  surprised  at  her  brutality;  it 
was  a moment  before  he  answered  her: 

“ It  is  quite  a different  thing.  The  experiences  which  are 
the  results  of  sin  — I don’t  mean  sin  in  the  orthodox  sense,  but 


JENNY 


184 

the  consequences  of  acting  contrary  to  your  understanding  — 
are  always  far  from  sweet.  I mean  that  my  experiences  have 
made  my  life  in  a way  richer  and  deeper  than  a lesser  mis- 
fortune might  have  done  — since  it  was  my  fate  not  to  attain 
the  greatest  happiness.  I have  a feeling  that  once  it  will  be 
the  case  in  a still  higher  degree,  and  will  help  me  to  under- 
stand the  real  meaning  of  life. 

“ In  your  case,  I meant  it  in  a different  way.  Even  if  your 
happiness  proved  to  be  of  a passing  nature,  it  was  pure  and 
guiltless  while  it  lasted,  because  you  believed  in  it  implicitly 
and  enjoyed  it  without  any  mental  reservation.  You  deceived 
nobody  but  yourself.” 

Jenny  did  not  speak.  She  would  have  had  a great  deal 
to  say  in  opposition,  but  she  felt  dimly  that  he  would  not  un- 
derstand her. 

“Don’t  you  remember  Ibsen’s  words: 

“ ‘ Though  I ram  my  ship  aground,  it  was  grand  to  sail  the 
seas  ’ ? ” 

“ I am  surprised  at  you,  Gert,  for  repeating  those  idiotic 
words.  Nowadays  we  have  too  great  a feeling  of  responsibility 
and  too  much  self-esteem,  most  of  us,  to  accept  that  kind  of 
reasoning.  If  I am  wrecked  and  sink,  I will  try  not  to  wince, 
if  I know  that  I have  not  run  my  ship  aground  myself.  As 
far  as  I understand,  the  best  sailors  prefer  to  go  down  with 
their  ship  if  the  fault  is  theirs,  rather  than  survive  the  dis- 
aster.” 

“ I am  of  the  opinion  that,  as  a rule,  one  can  thank  oneself 
for  every  misfortune,”  said  Gram,  smiling,  “ but  that  one  can 
nearly  always  draw  some  spiritual  benefit  out  of  it.” 

“ I agree  with  you  on  the  first  point  — and  on  the  second 
on  the  condition  that  the  misfortune  does  not  consist  in  the 
diminution  of  one’s  self-esteem.” 

“ You  should  not  take  this  so  seriously.  You  are  quite  ex- 
cited and  bitter.  I remember  what  you  said  on  the  day  Helge 


JENNY 


185 

left,  but,  my  dear  child,  you  cannot  really  mean  that  one 
should  quench  every  affection  at  its  birth  unless  one  can 
guarantee  the  moment  it  comes  into  life  that  it  will  last  until 
one’s  death,  endure  all  adversity,  be  ready  for  every  sacrifice, 
and  that  it  will  understand  the  personality  of  its  object  as  in  a 
vision,  show  up  its  most  sacred  depths  to  prevent  later  change 
of  opinion  about  him  or  her.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Jenny  sharply. 

“Have  you  ever  felt  this  yourself?  ” asked  Gram. 

“ No,  but  I know  it,  all  the  same.  I have  always  known 
that  it  should  be  so.  But  when  I was  twenty-eight  and  still  an 
old  maid,  longing  to  love  and  be  loved,  and  Helge  came  and 
fell  in  love  with  me,  I laid  aside  all  claims  on  myself  and  my 
love,  taking  what  I could  get  — to  a certain  extent  in  good  faith. 
It  will  be  all  right,  I thought  — I am  sure  it  will  — although  I 
did  not  feel  assured  in  my  inmost  heart  that  nothing  else  could 
be  possible.  Let  me  tell  you  what  my  friend  Heggen  told  me 
the  other  day.  He  despises  women  truly  and  honestly  — and 
he  is  right.  We  have  no  self-esteem,  and  we  are  so  lazy  that 
we  can  never  make  up  our  mind  in  earnest  to  shape  our  life  and 
happiness  ourselves,  and  to  work  with  that  purpose.  Secretly 
we  all  nourish  the  hope  that  a man  will  come  and  offer  us 
happiness,  so  that  we  need  not  make  any  effort  ourselves.  The 
most  womanly  of  us,  who  by  happiness  mean  only  idleness  and 
finery,  hang  on  to  the  man  who  can  give  them  plenty  of  it. 
If  amongst  us  there  are  a few  who  really  have  the  right  feel- 
ings and  are  longing  to  become  good  and  strong,  and  making 
efforts  in  that  direction  — we  still  hope  to  meet  a man  on  the 
way  and  to  become  what  we  want  to  be  through  his  love. 

“We  can  work  for  a time  pretty  honestly  and  seriously,  and 
take  a pleasure  in  it  too,  but  in  our  hearts  we  are  waiting  for 
a still  greater  joy,  which  we  cannot  acquire  by  our  work,  but 
must  receive  as  a gift.  We  women  can  never  get  to  the  point 
where  our  work  is  everything  to  us.” 


i86  JENNY 

“ Do  you  believe  work  alone  is  enough  for  a man?  Never,” 
said  Gram. 

“ It  is  for  Gunnar.  You  may  depend  on  it  that  he  will  keep 
women  in  their  right  place  in  his  life  — as  trifles.” 

Gram  laughed:  “ How  old  is  your  friend  Heggen?  I hope 

for  the  man’s  own  sake  that  he  will  change  his  opinion  some 
day  about  the  most  conclusive  influence  in  life.” 

“ I don’t,”  said  Jenny  vehemently,  “but  I hope  I,  too,  shall 
learn  some  day  to  put  this  nonsense  about  love  in  its  right 
place.” 

“ My  dear  Jenny,  you  speak  as  if  — as  if  you  had  no  sense, 
I was  going  to  say,  but  I know  you  have,”  said  Gram,  with  a 
melancholy  smile.  “ Shall  I tell  you  something  of  what  I know 
about  love,  little  one?  If  I did  not  believe  in  it,  I should  not 
have  the  least  particle  of  faith  in  men  — or  in  myself.  Do  you 
believe  that  it  is  only  women  who  think  life  meaningless,  and 
find  their  hearts  empty  and  frozen  if  they  have  nothing  but 
their  work  to  love  or  to  depend  upon?  Do  you  believe  there 
is  a single  soul  living  who  has  not  moments  of  doubt  in  him- 
self? You  must  have  somebody  in  whose  keeping  you  can 
give  the  best  in  you  — your  love  and  your  trust. 

“ When  I say  that  my  own  life  since  my  marriage  has  been 
a hell,  I am  not  using  too  strong  words,  and  if  I have  been  able 
to  stand  it  in  a way  it  is  because  I think  the  love  Rebecca  has 
for  me  partly  exonerates  her.  I know  that  her  feelings  of 
mean  pleasure  at  having  the  power  to  torment  and  humiliate 
me  with  her  jealousy  and  rage  are  a caricature  of  betrayed  love, 
and  it  is  a kind  of  satisfaction  to  my  sense  of  justice  that  there 
is  a reason  for  my  unhappiness.  I betrayed  her  when  I took 
her  love  without  giving  her  mine  — intending  secretly  to  give 
her  only  crumbs  — the  small  coin  of  love  — in  payment  for 
the  best  of  herself  she  offered  me.  If  life  punishes  every  sin 
against  the  sacredness  of  love  so  ruthlessly,  it  proves  to  me  that 
there  is  nothing  holier  in  life,  and  that  he  who  is  true  to  his 


JENNY  187 

ideal  of  love  will  reap  his  recompense  in  the  greatest  and  purest 
bliss. 

“ I told  you  once  that  I learnt  to  know  and  to  love  a woman 
when  it  was  too  late.  She  had  loved  me  from  the  time  we 
were  children  without  my  knowing,  or  caring  to  know  it.  When 
she  heard  of  my  marriage  she  accepted  a man  who  vowed  that 
she  could  save  and  raise  him  if  she  married  him.  I know  you 
would  scorn  any  such  means  of  saving,  but  you  don’t  know, 
child,  how  you  would  act  yourself,  if  you  knew  the  being  you 
loved  with  your  whole  soul  was  in  the  arms  of  another,  and 
found  your  life  not  worth  living,  and  if  you  heard  an  erring 
human  being  ask  you  to  give  him  the  life  you  did  not  value  and 
save  him  thereby. 

“ Helene  was  unhappy,  and  so  was  I.  Later  we  met,  under- 
stood one  another,  and  it  came  to  an  explanation  which,  how- 
ever, did  not  result  in  what  people  call  happiness.  We  were 
both  bound  by  ties  we  dared  not  break,  and  I must  admit  that 
my  love  for  her  changed  as  the  hope  of  making  her  my  wife 
slowly  died,  but  the  memory  of  her  is  the  greatest  treasure  of 
my  life.  She  is  now  living  in  another  part  of  the  world,  de- 
voting her  life  to  her  children  and  trying  to  lessen  for  them 
the  misery  of  having  to  live  with  a father  who  is  a drunkard 
and  a moral  wreck.  For  her  sake  I have  held  on  to  my  faith 
in  the  purity  of  the  human  soul,  in  its  beauty  and  its  strength 
— and  in  love,  and  I know,  too,  that  the  remembrance  of  me 
inspires  Helene  with  the  strength  to  struggle  on  and  to  suffer 
because  she  loves  me  today  as  she  did  in  our  childhood,  and 
believes  in  me,  in  my  talent,  my  love,  and  that  I was  worthy  of 
a better  fate.  I am  still  something  to  her,  don’t  you  think?” 

Jenny  did  not  answer. 

“ The  happiness  in  life  is  not  only  to  be  loved,  Jenny;  the 
greatest  happiness  is  to  love.” 

“ H’m.  A very  poor  sort  of  happiness,  I should  say,  to  love 
when  your  love  is  not  returned.” 


i88  JENNY 

He  sat  quiet  for  a while,  looking  down;  then  said  almost  in 
a whisper: 

“ Great  or  small,  it  is  happiness  to  know  somebody  of  whom 
one  thinks  only  good,  about  whom  one  can  say:  God  give  her 

happiness,  for  she  deserves  it  — give  her  all  that  I never  had. 
She  is  pure  and  beautiful,  warm-hearted  and  sweet,  talented 
and  kind.  It  means  happiness  to  me,  dear  Jenny,  to  be  able  to 
pray  like  this  for  you.  No;  it  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  little 
one.” 

He  had  risen,  and  she  rose  too,  making  a movement  as  if 
she  were  afraid  he  would  come  nearer.  Gram  stopped  and 
smiled : 

“ How  could  you  help  seeing  it  — you  who  are  so  clever. 
I thought  you  saw  it  before  I understood  it  myself.  It  has 
come  quite  naturally.  My  life  is  running  its  course  towards 
old  age,  inactivity,  darkness,  death,  and  I knew  that  I should 
never  reach  what  I have  longed  for  all  my  life.  Then  I met 
you.  You  are  to  me  the  most  glorious  woman  I have  ever 
known;  you  had  the  same  ideals  I once  had,  and  you  were  on 
the  way  to  attain  them.  How  could  I help  crying  out  in  my 
heart:  God  help  her  to  succeed.  Do  not  let  her  be  wasted  as 

I have  been! 

“You  were  so  sweet  to  me;  you  came  to  see  me  in  my  den, 
and  you  told  me  about  yourself.  You  listened  to  me,  you 
understood,  and  your  beautiful  eyes  were  so  full  of  sympathy, 
so  soft  and  loving.  Dearest,  are  you  crying?  ” He  seized 
both  her  hands  and  pressed  them  passionately  to  his  lips: 

“ Don’t  cry,  dear;  you  must  not.  Why  do  you  cry?  You 
are  shivering  — tell  me  why  you  are  crying  like  this?  ” 

“It  is  all  so  sad,”  she  sobbed. 

“ Sit  down  here.”  He  was  on  his  knees  before  her — for  a 
second  he  rested  his  forehead  against  her  knee. 

“ Do  not  cry  because  of  me.  Do  you  think  for  a moment  I 
wish  that  I had  never  met  you?  If  you  have  loved,  and  you 


JENNY 


189 

wish  it  had  never  been,  you  have  not  really  loved.  Believe  me, 
it  is  so.  No,  Jenny,  not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  I 
miss  what  I feel  for  you! 

“ And  you  must  not  cry  about  yourself.  You  will  be  happy. 
I know  it.  Of  all  the  men  who  will  love  you,  one  will  lie  at 
your  feet  some  day,  as  I do  now,  and  say  that  to  him  it  is  life 
itself  to  be  there,  and  you  will  think  so  too.  You  will  under- 
stand that  to  sit  thus  with  him  is  the  only  happiness  to  you, 
even  if  it  were  a brief  moment  of  rest  after  a day  full  of  toil 
and  hardships,  and  in  the  poorest  of  cottages  — a far  greater 
happiness  than  if  you  became  the  greatest  artist  that  ever  ex- 
isted and  enjoyed  the  highest  measure  of  fame  and  praise.  Is 
not  that  what  you  believe  yourself?  ” 

“ Yes,”  she  whispered,  exhausted  with  weeping. 

“ You  must  not  despair  of  winning  that  happiness  some  day. 
All  the  time  you  are  striving  to  become  a true  artist  and  a good 
and  able  woman,  you  are  longing  to  meet  some  one  who  thinks 
that  all  you  have  done  to  attain  your  aim  is  right  and  that  he 
loves  you  for  it  — is  it  not  so,  Jenny?” 

She  nodded,  and  Gram  kissed  her  hands  reverently. 

“ You  have  already  reached  the  goal.  You  are  everything 
that  is  good  and  refined,  proud  and  lovely.  I say  it,  and  one 
day  a younger,  better,  and  stronger  man  will  say  the  same  — 
and  you  will  be  happy  to  listen.  Are  you  not  a little  pleased 
to  hear  me  say  that  you  are  the  best  and  sweetest  and  most 
wonderful  little  girl  in  the  world?  — look  at  me,  Jenny.  Can 
I not  give  you  a little  pleasure  by  saying  that  I believe  you  will 
have  all  possible  happiness  because  you  deserve  it?  ” 

She  looked  down  into  his  face,  trying  to  smile;  then,  bending 
her  head,  she  passed  her  hands  over  his  hair: 

“ Oh,  Gert,  I could  not  help  it  — could  I ? I did  not  want  to 
do  you  any  harm.” 

“ Do  not  grieve  about  it,  little  one!  I love  you  because  you 
are  what  you  want  to  be  — what  I once  hoped  to  be.  You  must 


JENNY 


190 

not  be  sad  for  my  sake,  even  if  you  think  you  have  caused  me 
pain;  there  are  sorrows  that  are  good,  full  of  blessing,  I assure 
you.” 

She  went  on  crying  softly. 

Presently  he  whispered: 

“May  I come  and  see  you  now  and  again?  Will  you  not 
send  for  me  when  you  are  sad?  I should  so  like  to  try  and  be 
of  some  help  to  my  dear  little  girl.” 

“ I dare  not,  Gert.” 

“ Dear  child,  I am  an  old  man;  remember,  I might  be  your 
father.” 

“For  — for  your  sake,  I mean.  It  is  not  right.” 

“ Oh  yes,  Jenny.  Do  you  believe  that  I think  less  about 
you  when  I don’t  see  you  ? I ask  only  to  see  you,  talk  to  you, 
to  try  and  do  something  for  you.  Won’t  you  let  me?  Do  let 
me  come.” 

“ I don’t  know  — I don’t  know  what  to  say,  but  please  go 
now.  I cannot  bear  any  more  today  — it  is  all  so  terrible. 
Won’t  you  go,  dear?  ” 

He  rose  slowly: 

“ I will.  Good-bye!  Jenny,  dear  child,  you  are  quite  be- 
side yourself.” 

“ Yes  ” — in  a whisper. 

“ I will  go  now,  but  I want  to  see  you  before  you  go  awray. 
I shall  come  back  when  you  are  yourself  again  and  not  fright- 
ened of  me;  there  is  no  reason  for  that,  dear.” 

She  was  quiet  for  a little,  then  suddenly  drew  him  close  to 
her  for  a second,  brushing  his  cheek  with  her  lips. 

“ Go  now,  Gert.” 

“ Thank  you.  God  bless  you,  Jenny.” 

When  he  was  gone  she  paced  up  and  down  the  floor,  shivering 
without  knowing  why.  In  her  heart  she  felt  a certain  pleasure 
in  remembering  his  words  when  he  was  on  his  knees  before  her. 


JENNY 


191 

She  had  always  looked  upon  Gert  as  a weak  man,  as  one  who 
had  suffered  himself  to  be  dragged  down  and  been  trodden 
upon  as  those  who  are  down  always  will  be.  And  now  he  had 
suddenly  revealed  himself  to  her  as  possessing  a great  fortitude 
of  soul,  and  a being  rich  enough  and  willing  to  help,  while 
she  was  bewildered,  distracted,  and  sick  with  longing  in  her 
inmost  heart  behind  the  shield  of  opinions  and  thoughts  which 
she  had  made  for  herself. 

She  had  asked  him  to  go.  Why?  Because  she  was  so  mis- 
erably poor  herself  and  had  complained  of  her  need  to  him 
who,  she  thought,  was  just  as  poor  as  she  herself,  and  he  had 
showed  her  that  he  was  rich,  offering  gladly  to  help  her  out  of 
his  abundance.  It  was  no  doubt  because  she  felt  humiliated 
that  she  asked  him  to  go. 

To  accept  anything  from  an  affection  to  which  she  could  not 
respond  had  always  seemed  mean  to  her,  but  then  she  never  im- 
agined that  she  would  be  in  need  of  such  help. 

He  had  not  been  allowed  to  continue  the  work  to  which  he 
was  devoted;  the  love  he  had  borne  in  his  heart  was  never  to 
live.  Yet  he  did  not  despair.  That  was  probably  the  ad- 
vantage of  having  faith  — it  did  not  matter  so  much  what  one 
believed,  provided  there  was  somebody  beside  oneself  one  could 
trust,  for  it  is  impossible  to  live  with  only  oneself  to  love  and 
trust. 

She  was  quite  familiar  with  the  thought  of  voluntary  death. 
If  she  died  now  there  were  a few  she  cared  for  and  who  would 
be  sorry,  but  none  who  could  not  do  without  her,  nor  any  one  to 
whom  she  was  so  necessary  that  she  would  feel  it  her  duty  to 
prolong  her  life  for  their  sake.  Provided  they  did  not  know 
she  had  done  it  herself,  her  mother  and  sisters  would  mourn 
her  for  a year  and  then  remember  her  with  gentle  melancholy. 
Cesca  and  Gunnar  would  be  more  sorry  than  anybody  else, 
because  they  would  understand  that  she  had  been  unhappy,  but 
she  was  outside  their  life.  The  one  who  loved  her  most  would 


JENNY 


192 

miss  her  most,  but  as  she  had  nothing  to  give  him  he  might 
love  her  just  as  well  dead.  To  love  her  was  his  happiness;  he 
had  the  capacity  in  him  to  be  happy,  but  if  she  had  not,  it  was 
no  good  living.  Work  could  not  till  her  life  to  such  an  extent 
that  she  would  not  long  for  anything  else  besides.  Why  then 
go  on  living  because  they  said  she  had  talent?  Nobody  had 
more  pleasure  of  her  art  than  she  had  in  exercising  it,  and  the 
pleasure  was  not  great  enough  to  satisfy  her. 

Gunnar  was  not  right  in  what  he  had  once  said,  rather 
brutally,  that  she  was  a martyr  to  her  own  virtue.  That  could 
easily  be  remedied,  but  she  dared  not,  because  she  was  always 
afraid  of  meeting  later  what  she  had  been  longing  for.  And 
the  least  satisfactory  of  all  would  be  to  live  close  to  another 
human  being  and  yet  in  one’s  inmost  soul  be  just  as  lonely  as 
before.  Oh  no  — no.  She  would  not  belong  to  a man  and 
submit  to  all  the  physical  and  mental  intimacies  as  the  con- 
sequence of  it,  and  then  discover  one  day  that  she  did  not  know 
him,  and  that  he  had  never  known  her  — that  the  one  had  never 
understood  the  language  of  the  other. 

She  lived  because  she  was  waiting;  she  did  not  -want  a 
lover,  because  she  was  expecting  a master,  and  she  did  not  wish 
to  die  — not  now  while  she  was  waiting. 

No,  she  was  not  going  to  throw  away  her  life  either  this  way 
or  that;  she  could  not  die  so  poor  that  she  had  not  a single 
beloved  thing  to  bid  farewell  to.  She  dared  not,  because  she 
wanted  to  believe  that  some  day  things  would  be  different. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  take  up  painting  again, 
although  it  would  probably  not  be  much  good  now,  love-sick  as 
she  was.  She  laughed.  That  was  just  what  she  was  — love- 
sick. The  object  did  not  exist  at  present,  but  the  love  was 
there. 

Jenny  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  In  the  gathering 
darkness  the  sky  looked  almost  violet,  and  the  tiled  roofs,  the 
chimney-pots,  and  the  telephone  wires  all  melted  together  into 


JENNY 


193 

one  grey  tint  in  the  twilight.  A reddish  light  rose  from  the 
streets,  colouring  the  frosty  haze.  The  rolling  of  carriages  and 
the  screech  of  a tram  on  the  rails  sounded  clearly  on  the  frozen 
ground. 

She  did  not  feel  inclined  to  go  home  to  dinner,  but,  having 
promised  her  mother  to  come,  she  put  the  stove  out  and  left. 

The  cold  was  raw  and  damp;  the  fog  smelt  of  soot  and  gas 
and  frozen  dust.  What  a dull  street  it  was  where  her  studio  lay. 
It  led  down  from  the  centrum,  with  its  noise  and  traffic,  its 
shops  with  brilliant  show  windows  and  people  streaming  in  and 
out,  and  its  course  ended  by  the  lifeless  grey  walls  of  the  fort. 
The  houses  on  either  side  looked  grey  and  deserted:  the  new 
buildings  of  stone  and  glass,  where  business  fluttered  in  and 
out  on  paper,  prepared  by  busy  young  people  in  the  strong 
white  light  behind  big  windows,  and  people  talked  to  each 
other  by  telephone  — and  the  old  ones  remaining  from  the  time 
the  town  was  small  were  low  and  brown,  with  shiny  fronts  and 
linen  blinds  in  the  office  windows.  Here  and  there  behind  a 
small  pane  with  curtains  and  flower-pots  was  a humble  home 
— strangely  solitary  dwellings  in  this  thoroughfare,  where  the 
houses  mostly  were  deserted  at  night.  The  shops  were  not  of 
the  kind  that  people  rush  in  and  out  of.  Some  of  them  had 
wallpaper,  plaster  ornaments  for  ceilings,  and  stoves  for  sale; 
others  were  furniture  stores,  with  the  windows  full  of  empty 
mahogany  beds  and  varnished  oak  chairs  that  looked  as  if 
nobody  would  ever  sit  on  them. 

In  a gateway  a child  was  standing  — a little  boy,  blue  in  the 
face  from  cold  with  a big  basket  on  his  arm.  He  was  looking 
at  two  dogs  fighting  in  the  centre  of  the  street  and  making  the 
frozen  dust  fly  about.  He  started  when  the  dogs  came  tumbling 
near  the  place  where  he  was  standing. 

“Are  you  afraid?”  asked  Jenny.  As  the  boy  did  not  an- 
swer, she  continued:  “Would  you  like  me  to  see  you  past 

them?  ” He  came  to  her  side  immediately,  but  did  not  speak. 


JENNY 


194 

“ Which  way  are  you  going?  Where  do  you  live?  ” 

“ In  Voldgata.” 

“ Did  you  come  on  an  errand  all  the  way  here,  such  a little 
boy  ? — it  was  very  brave  of  you.” 

“We  deal  with  Aases  in  this  street  because  father  knows 
him,”  was  the  boy’s  answer.  “ This  basket  is  so  heavy.” 
Jenny  looked  about  her;  the  street  was  nearly  empty: 

“ Give  it  to  me.  I will  carry  it  for  you  a bit  of  the  way.” 
The  boy  gave  her  the  basket  reluctantly. 

“ Take  my  hand  till  we  have  got  past  those  dogs.  How  cold 
your  hands  are!  Have  you  no  gloves?  ” 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

“ Put  your  other  hand  in  my  muff.  You  won’t?  You  think 
it  a silly  thing  for  a boy  to  carry  a muff  — is  that  it?  ” 

She  remembered  Nils  when  he  was  small;  she  had  often 
longed  for  him.  He  was  big  now  and  had  many  friends;  he 
was  at  an  age  when  it  was  no  fun  to  walk  about  with  an  elder 
sister.  He  came  seldom  to  her  studio  now.  The  year  she  had 
been  abroad  and  the  months  she  had  spent  with  Helge  had 
changed  their  relations;  perhaps  when  he  got  older  they  would 
be  friends  again  as  before.  They  probably  would,  for  they 
were  fond  of  each  other,  but  just  now  he  was  happy  without 
her.  She  wished  he  were  a small  boy  now,  so  that  she  could 
take  him  on  her  lap  and  tell  him  stories  full  of  adventures  while 
she  washed  and  undressed  him  and  kissed  him  — or  a little 
bigger,  as  in  the  time  when  they  went  out  together  for  excursions 
in  Nordmarken,  and  the  road  to  the  butcher’s  was  long  and 
full  of  remarkable  happenings. 

“ What  is  you  name,  little  boy?  ” 

“ Ausjen  Torstein  Mo.” 

“ How  old  are  you?  ” 

“ Six.” 

“ I suppose  you  don’t  go  to  school  yet?  ” 

“No,  but  I shall  in  April.” 


JENNY 


195 


“ Do  you  think  it  will  be  nice?  ” 

“ No  — the  teacher  is  so  strict.  Oscar  goes  to  school,  but 
we  shan’t  be  together,  for  he  is  being  moved  into  the  second 
form.” 

“ Is  Oscar  your  friend?  ” asked  Jenny. 

“Yes;  we  live  in  the  same  house.” 

After  a short  pause  Jenny  spoke  again:  “Aren’t  you  sorry 

there  is  no  snow?  You  have  got  the  hill  by  the  bay  where  you 
can  toboggan.  Have  you  got  a sled?  ” 

“ No,  but  I have  snowshoes  and  ski.” 

They  had  turned  into  another  street.  Jenny  let  go  the  boy’s 
hand  and  looked  at  the  basket.  It  was  so  heavy,  and  Ausjen 
was  so  small  — so  she  kept  it,  although  she  did  not  like  to  be 
seen  with  a poor  little  urchin  in  a good  street.  She  would  have 
like  to  take  him  to  the  confectioner’s,  but  thought  it  would  be 
rather  awkward  if  she  met  any  one  she  knew  there. 

In  the  dark  Voldgata  she  took  his  hand  again  and  carried  the 
basket  to  the  house  where  he  lived,  giving  him  a coin  as  a part- 
ing gift. 

On  her  way  through  the  town  she  bought  chocolates  and  a 
pair  of  red  woollen  gloves  to  send  to  Ausjen.  It  was  nice  to  be 
able  to  give  somebody  an  unexpected  pleasure.  She  might  try 
to  get  him  for  a model,  but  he  was  very  small  to  sit  so  long. 
Poor  little  hand;  it  had  got  warm  in  hers,  and  it  seemed  as  if  it 
had  been  good  for  her  to  hold  it.  Yes,  she  wanted  to  try  and 
paint  him;  he  had  a queer  little  face.  She  would  give  him  milk 
with  a little  coffee  in  it  and  a nice  roll  and  butter,  and  she 
would  work  and  talk  to  Ausjen.  . . . 


PART  THREE 


I 

TOWARDS  evening  of  a clear  and  calm  afternoon  in 
May  there  was  a haze  over  the  black  sites  of  the 
city;  the  naked  walls  looked  reddish  yellow  and  the 
factory  chimneys  a livery  brown  in  the  sunlight.  Large  and 
small  houses,  high  and  low  roofs,  stood  outlined  against  the 
greyish-purple  air,  heavy  with  dust  and  smoke  and  vapours. 
A little  tree  by  a red  wall  showed  tiny  greenish-yellow  leaves, 
transparent  in  the  sunlight. 

The  mould  on  the  board  walls  of  the  workshops  was  bright 
green  and  the  soot  flakes  on  the  factory  walls  jet  black  in  some 
places  and  in  others  covered,  as  it  were,  with  a thin,  glistening 
silvery  film. 

Jenny  had  been  walking  about  all  the  morning  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  where  the  sky  rose  dark  blue  and  hot  over 
the  olive-golden  fir-tops  and  the  amber-coloured  buds  of  the 
leaf  trees,  but  here  in  the  city  over  the  high  houses  and  the 
net  of  telephone  wires  it  was  growing  pale  behind  a thin  veil  of 
opal-white  haze.  This  was  really  the  prettier  sight  of  the  two. 
though  Gert  could  not  see  it.  To  him  the  city  was  always  ugly, 
grey,  and  dirty;  it  was  the  city  they  had  cursed,  all  those  young 
men  of  the  eighties  who  had  been  obliged  to  settle  down  there 
to  work.  He  was  probably  standing  at  his  window  this  mo- 
ment, looking  out  in  the  sun,  and  to  him  the  play  of  light  in 
line  and  colour  was  not  worth  noticing;  it  was  merely  a sunray 
outside  his  prison  window. 

She  stopped  a few  steps  from  his  door,  looking  up  and  down 
the  street,  as  usual.  There  was  nobody  she  knew,  only  busi- 
ness people  on  their  way  home.  It  was  past  six  o’clock. 

199 


2C0 


JENNY 


She  ran  up  the  stairs  — those  dreadful  iron  steps  that  echoed 
their  movements  when  they  stole  down  from  his  rooms  late  in 
the  winter  nights.  The  naked  walls  seemed  ever  to  retain  the 
cold,  raw  air. 

She  hurried  along  the  corridor  and  gave  the  usual  three  knocks 
at  his  door.  Gram  opened  it.  He  put  his  arm  round  her, 
and  locked  the  door  with  his  other  hand  as  they  kissed.  Over 
his  shoulder  she  could  see  the  flowers  on  the  little  table,  with 
wine  and  foreign  fruits  in  a crystal  bowl.  There  was  a slight 
mist  of  cigarette  smoke  in  the  room,  and  she  knew  that  he  had 
been  sitting  there  since  four  o’clock  waiting  for  her. 

“ I could  not  come  before,”  she  whispered.  “ I w7as  so  sorry 
to  let  you  wait.”  When  he  released  her  she  went  to  the  table, 
bending  over  the  flowers.  “ I will  take  two  and  make  myself 
nice,  may  I?  I am  getting  so  spoilt  since  I have  come  to  you, 
Gert.”  She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 

“ When  must  you  go?  ” he  asked,  kissing  her  arms  tenderly. 

Jenny  bent  her  head: 

“ I promised  to  be  back  for  supper.  Mother  always  wraits 
up  for  me,  and  she  is  so  tired  now;  she  needs  me  to  help  her 
in  the  evening  with  one  thing  or  another,”  she  said  quickly. 
“ It  is  not  so  easy  to  get  away  from  home,  you  see,”  she 
whispered  in  excuse. 

He  listened  to  her  many  words  with  bowed  head.  When 
she  came  towards  him  he  took  her  in  his  arms  so  that  her  face 
was  hidden  against  his  shoulder. 

She  could  not  lie,  poor  little  thing,  not  so  well,  anyhow,  that 
he  would  believe  it  for  a single  merciful  second.  In  the  winter 
— the  very  short  time  of  their  love  — and  in  the  early  spring 
she  could  always  be  away  from  home. 

“ It  is  tiresome,  Gert,  but  now  I am  living  at  home  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  manage;  you  know  I have  to  be  there  because 
mother  needs  the  money  as  well  as  the  help.  You  agreed  with 
me,  did  you  not,  that  I had  better  move  home?  ” 


JENNY 


201 


Gert  nodded  assent.  They  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  close 
together,  Jenny’s  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  so  that  she  could 
not  see  his  face. 

“ I was  in  the  country  this  morning,  walking  where  we  used 
to  go  together.  Let  us  go  there  again  soon  — the  day  after  to- 
morrow if  it  is  fine  — will  you?  You  are  sorry  because  I have 
to  go  home  so  early  today,  are  you  not?  ” 

“ My  dear,  have  I not  said  that  thousands  of  times  already?  ” 
She  could  hear  from  his  voice  that  he  was  saying  this  with  his 
melancholy  smile  again.  “ I am  grateful  for  every  second  of 
your  life  that  you  give  me.” 

“ Don’t  speak  like  that,  Gert,”  she  said,  pained. 

“Why  should  I not  say  it  when  it  is  true?  Dearest  little 
girl,  do  you  think  I will  ever  forget  that  all  you  have  given  me 
is  as  a princely  grace,  and  I can  never  understand  how  you  came 
to  give  it  to  me  at  all?  ” 

“ When  I realized  last  winter  that  you  were  fond  of  me  — 
how  much  you  really  loved  me  — I said  to  myself  it  must  stop. 
But  then  I understood  that  I could  not  be  without  you,  and  so 
I gave  myself  to  you.  Was  that  a grace?  When  I could  not 
let  you  go?  ” 

“ I call  it  an  inconceivable  grace  that  you  ever  came  to  love 
me.” 

She  nestled  in  his  arms  without  speaking. 

“ My  own  darling  ...  so  young  and  sweet  you  are.  . . .” 

“I  am  not  young,  Gert.  When  you  met  me  I was  already 
beginning  to  get  old  without  ever  having  been  young.  You 
seemed  young  to  me,  much  younger  at  heart  than  I,  because  you 
still  believed  in  what  I called  childish  dreams  and  used  to  laugh 
at  them.  You  have  made  me  believe  in  love  and  tenderness  and 
all  such  things.” 

Gert  Gram  smiled,  and  whispered : “ Perhaps  my  heart  was 

not  older  than  yours  — for  it  seemed  to  me  that  I had  never  yet 
had  any  youth,  and  deep  down  in  my  soul  I still  entertained  the 


202 


JENNY 


hope  that  some  day  youth  would  touch  me,  if  only  for  once,  with 
his  wand.  But  my  hair  has  turned  white  meanwhile.” 

Jenny  raised  her  head  and  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  his 
head. 

“Are  you  tired,  little  one?  Shall  I take  off  your  shoes? 
Will  you  not  lie  down  and  rest?  ” 

“ No,  let  me  stay  as  I am;  it  is  nicer  so.” 

She  drew  her  feet  up  under  her  and  nestled  closer  in  his 
lap.  He  laid  one  arm  about  her,  and  with  the  other  hand  he 
poured  out  some  wine,  holding  the  glass  to  her  lips.  She 
drank  readily.  He  dropped  cherries  into  her  mouth  and  took 
the  stones  from  her  lips,  putting  them  on  the  plate. 

“More  wine?” 

“ Thanks.  I think  I will  stay  with  you.  I can  send  a message 
home  to  say  I have  met  Heggen  — I believe  he  is  in  town  — 
but  I must  go  home  before  the  trams  stop.” 

“ I’ll  go  and  see  about  it  now.”  He  let  her  down  gently  on 
the  sofa.  “ Lie  still  there  and  rest,  little  one.” 

When  he  was  gone  she  took  off  her  shoes,  drank  some  more 
wine,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa  with  her  head  deep  in  the 
cushions,  pulling  a rug  over  herself. 

After  all,  she  loved  him,  and  was  glad  to  be  with  him.  Sit- 
ting as  she  had  been  a moment  ago,  resting  in  his  arms,  she  was 
happy.  He  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  had  taken  her 
on  his  knee,  warming  her  and  hiding  her  and  calling  her  his 
little  girl.  He  was  the  only  being  who  had  stood  by  her  really 
— so  why  should  she  not  be  close  to  him  ? 

When  he  held  her  close  to  him  and  hid  her  so  that  she  saw 
nothing,  but  only  felt  that  he  had  his  arms  round  her  and 
warmed  her,  she  was  contented.  She  could  not  do  without  him, 
so  why  not  give  him  the  little  she  had  to  give,  when  he  gave  her 
what  she  needed  most  of  all? 

He  could  kiss  her,  do  with  her  what  he  liked,  provided  he 


JENNY 


203 

did  not  speak,  for  then  they  drew  so  far  apart.  He  spoke  of 
love,  but  her  love  was  not  what  he  believed  it  to  be,  and  she 
could  not  explain  it  in  words.  It  was  no  grace  or  princely  gift 
— she  clung  to  him  with  a poor,  begging  love ; she  did  not 
want  him  to  thank  her  for  it,  only  to  be  fond  of  her  and  say 
nothing. 

When  he  came  back  she  was  lying  with  her  eyes  wide  open, 
but  she  closed  them  under  his  discreet  caresses,  smiling  a little; 
then  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  pressed  close  to  him. 
The  faint  scent  of  violet  that  he  used  was  mild  and  agreeable. 
She  nodded  slightly  when  he  lifted  her  up  with  questioning  eyes. 
He  wanted  to  say  something,  but  she  put  her  hand  across  his 
mouth  and  then  kissed  him  so  that  he  could  not  speak. 

He  saw  her  to  the  car.  She  remained  an  instant  stand- 
ing on  the  platform,  looking  after  him  as  he  walked  down  the 
street  in  the  blue  light  of  a May  night.  Then  she  went  in 
and  sat  down. 

Gram  had  left  his  wife  that  Christmas,  and  lived  alone  in  the 
office  building,  where  he  had  taken  another  room.  Jenny  un- 
derstood that  he  was  going  to  get  a separation  later  on  when 
Rebecca  Gram  had  seen  that  he  was  not  coming  back  to  her. 
It  was  his  way  of  doing  it;  he  had  not  the  strength  to  break 
with  her  at  once. 

Jenny  dared  not  think  of  what  his  plans  for  the  future  might 
be.  Did  he  think  they  would  marry? 

She  could  not  deny  to  herself  that  she  had  never  for  a second 
thought  of  binding  herself  to  him  for  good,  and  that  was  why 
she  felt  the  bitter,  hopeless  humiliation  and  shame  at  the 
thought  of  him  when  she  was  not  with  him  and  could  hide  in 
his  love.  She  had  deceived  him  — all  the  time  she  had  deceived 
him. 

“ That  you  have  learnt  to  love  me,  Jenny,  that  is  what  I call 


204  JENNY 

an  inconceivable  grace  ” — was  it  her  fault  that  he  looked  upon 
it  in  that  way? 

He  could  not  have  made  her  his  mistress  unless  she  had 
wanted  it  herself  or  made  him  feel  that  she  wanted  it.  She 
understood  that  he  was  longing  for  her;  it  worried  her  every 
time  they  were  together  to  know  herself  desired  and  to  see  his 
efforts  to  conceal  it  — he  was  too  proud  to  let  her  see  it,  too 
proud  to  beg  where  he  had  once  offered  to  give  — and  too  proud 
to  risk  refusal.  Knowing  that  she  did  not  want  to  reject  his 
love  and  to  lose  the  only  being  who  loved  her,  what  else  could 
she  do,  if  she  wished  to  be  honest,  but  offer  him  what  she  had 
to  give  when  she  accepted  from  him  something  she  could  not  do 
without? 

But  she  had  been  faced  with  the  necessity  of  saying  words 
stronger  and  more  passionate  than  her  feelings,  and  he  had 
believed  them.  And  it  happened  again  and  again.  When  she 
came  to  him  depressed,  worried,  tired  of  thinking  what  the 
end  of  it  all  would  be,  and  saw  that  he  understood,  she  used 
again  the  tender  words,  feigning  more  feeling  than  she  had, 
and  he  was  deceived  at  once. 

He  knew  no  other  love  than  the  love  which  was  happiness 
in  itself.  Unhappiness  in  love  came  from  outside,  from  some 
relentless  fate,  or  from  stern  justice  as  a vengeance  for  old 
wrongs.  She  knew  what  his  fear  was  — he  dreaded  that  her 
love  would  die  one  day  when  she  saw  that  he  was  too  old  to  be 
her  lover,  but  he  never  had  a suspicion  that  her  love  was  bom 
a weakling  and  had  in  it  the  germ  that  would  lead  to  death. 
It  was  no  good  trying  to  explain  this  to  Gert;  he  would  not 
understand.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  she  had  sought  shelter 
in  his  amis  because  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  offered  to 
shelter  her  when  she  was  weary  to  death.  When  he  offered  her 
love  and  warmth  she  had  not  the  strength  to  reject,  although  she 
knew  she  ought  not  to  accept  it  — she  was  not  worthy  of  it. 

No,  he  was  not  old.  It  was  the  passion  of  a youth  of  twenty, 


JENNY 


205 

a childish  faith,  a reverent  worship,  and  the  kindness  and 
tenderness  of  a grown  man  — all  the  love  that  filled  a man’s 
life  — that  flared  up  on  the  border  of  old  age.  And  it  should 
have  been  given  to  a woman  who  could  love  him  in  return,  who 
could  live  with  him  for  those  few  years  the  life  he  had  dreamt 
of,  longed  and  hoped  for,  would  last  — ■ live  with  him  so  that 
she  would  be  bound  to  him  by  a thousand  happy  memories 
when  old  age  came,  having  been  in  true  love  the  wife  of  his 
youth  and  manhood,  and  ageing  with  him. 

But  she  — what  could  she  give  him  if  she  remained?  She  had 
never  been  able  to  give  him  anything,  only  taken  what  he  gave. 
If  she  tried  to  stay,  she  would  not  be  able  to  make  him  believe 
that  all  her  longing  for  life  was  quenched  for  ever  in  the  love 
of  their  youth.  He  would  himself  tell  her  to  go.  She  had 
loved  and  given;  she  did  not  love  any  more,  and  would  be  free. 
That  is  how  he  would  look  upon  it;  he  would  never  understand 
that  she  mourned  because  there  was  nothing  — nothing  she  had 
been  able  to  give. 

She  could  not  bear  to  hear  him  speak  about  her  gifts  to  him. 
It  is  true  that  she  had  brought  him  her  pure  soul  when  she  gave 
herself  to  him.  He  could  never  forget  it,  and  he  measured,  as 
it  were,  the  depth  and  strength  of  her  love  by  this  fact,  for  she 
had  given  him  the  purity  of  her  youth  — of  twenty  years. 

She  had  kept  it  as  a white  bridal  dress,  unused,  unstained, 
and  in  her  longing  and  anxiety  lest  she  should  never  come  to 
wear  it,  in  despair  over  her  cold  solitude  and  her  inability  to 
love,  she  had  clung  to  it,  crumpled  it,  and  soiled  it  with  her 
thoughts.  Was  not  any  one  who  had  lived  the  life  of  love 
purer  than  she,  who  had  been  brooding  and  spying  and  longing 
until  all  her  faculties  were  paralysed  by  that  longing? 

She  had  given  herself  — and  yet  what  a slight  impression  it 
had  made  on  her.  She  was  not  altogether  cold;  sometimes  she 
was  carried  away  by  his  passion,  but  she  feigned  passion  while 
she  was  cool,  and  when  she  was  away  from  him  she  scarcely 


206 


JENNY 


remembered  it  at  all.  Yet,  to  please  him,  she  wrote  of  a long- 
ing which  did  not  exist  — yes,  she  had  been  feigning,  feigning 
all  the  time  before  his  honest  passion. 

There  was  a time  when  she  had  not  been  a hypocrite,  or 
if  she  had  lied  to  Gert  she  had  also  lied  to  herself.  She  had 
felt  a storm  in  herself;  it  was  perhaps  pity  for  him  and  his 
fate  and  rebellion  against  her  own  — why  should  they  both  be 
harried  by  a longing  for  something  impossible?  — and  in  the 
growing  anxiety  for  where  it  all  would  lead,  she  had  rejoiced 
that  she  loved  him,  for  she  was  forced  to  fall  into  the  arms 
of  this  man,  however  mad  she  knew  it  to  be. 

She  would  sit  in  the  tram  when  she  left  him  of  an  evening, 
looking  at  all  the  sleepy,  placid  faces  of  the  people,  and  re- 
joicing that  she  came  from  her  lover  — that  he  and  she  were 
whirled  by  the  tempest  of  their  fate.  They  had  been  driven 
into  it  and  did  not  know  where  they  were  going,  and  she  was 
proud  of  her  fate  because  unhappiness  and  darkness  threat- 
ened. 

And  now  she  was  sitting  here  only  wishing  for  it  to  end, 
planning  a journey  abroad  to  escape  from  it  all.  She  had  ac- 
cepted a invitation  to  stay  at  Tegneby  with  Cesca  to  prepare  the 
break.  It  was  better  for  Gert  that  he  was  alone  — if  she  could 
manage  to  end  the  life  between  them  now,  she  could  have  done 
him  some  good. 

Two  young  women  were  sitting  opposite  her.  They  were 
probably  not  older  than  she,  but  stupefied  by  a few  years  of 
marriage.  Three  or  four  years  ago  they  had  no  doubt  been  a 
couple  of  neat  office  girls,  who  dressed  attractively  and  sported 
with  their  admirers  in  Nordmarken.  She  knew  the  face  of  one 
of  them,  now  she  thought  of  it;  she  had  seen  her  at  Hakloa  one 
Easter.  Jenny  had  noticed  her  then  because  she  was  such  a 
good  ski-runner  and  looked  so  brisk  and  smart  in  her  sport- 
suit.  In  a way  she  was  not  badly  dressed  now  either;  her 


JENNY 


207 

walking  habit  was  fashionable  enough,  but  did  not  fit.  The 
figure  had  no  firmness;  she  was  well  covered,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  shoulders  and  hips  were  angular.  The  face  under  a 
big  hat  with  ostrich  feathers  was  old,  with  bad  teeth,  and  fur- 
rows round  the  mouth.  She  was  talking,  and  her  friend  listened 
interestedly,  sitting  there  heavily  and  painfully  enceinte,  with 
knees  apart  and  her  hands  in  a colossal  muff.  The  face  was 
originally  pretty,  but  fat  and  red,  and  with  a treble  chin. 

“ I have  to  lock  up  the  cheese  in  the  sideboard;  if  it  goes 
into  the  kitchen  only  the  rind  is  left  the  next  day  — a big  piece 
of  Gruyére  costing  nearly  three  kroner.” 

“ I quite  believe  it.” 

“ And  then  there’s  another  thing.  She  is  very  fond  of  eggs. 
The  other  day  I went  into  her  bedroom  — she  is  such  a pig  and 
her  room  is  very  smelly;  the  bed  had  not  been  made  for  I don’t 
know  how  long.  ‘ Really,  Solveig,’  I said,  lifting  the  blankets, 
and  what  do  you  think  I found?  Three  eggs  and  a paper  of 
sugar  in  the  bed.  She  said  she  had  bought  it  herself  — and 
perhaps  she  had.” 

“ I don’t  think  so,”  said  the  other. 

“ The  sugar  was  in  a paper  bag,  so  she  may  have  bought  it, 
but  the  eggs  she  had  certainly  taken,  and  I gave  her  a scolding. 
Last  Saturday  we  were  to  have  rice  pudding.  When  I went 
into  the  kitchen  I found  the  rice  boiling  on  the  gas  and  quite 
burnt,  while  she  was  sitting  in  her  room  doing  needlework.  I 
called  her  while  I was  stirring  the  rice,  and  what  do  you  think 
I found  in  the  spoon?  An  egg,  if  you  please.  She  boils  eggs 
for  herself  with  the  rice!  I had  to  laugh,  but  did  you  ever 
hear  anything  so  dirty?  I gave  her  a piece  of  my  mind. 
Don’t  you  think  she  deserved  it?  ” 

“ Certainly.  Servants  are  a bother.  What  do  you  think 
mine  did  the  other  day?  . . .” 

They  had  also  been  longing  for  love  when  they  were  young 
girls  — their  ideal  of  love  was  a smart,  straight  lad  with  a 


208 


JENNY 


secure  position,  who  could  take  them  away  from  the  monotonous 
work  in  office  or  shop  and  settle  them  in  a little  home,  where 
the  three  rooms  would  hold  all  their  belongings,  and  they  could 
spread  out  all  the  pieces  of  needlework  with  embroidered  roses 
and  bluebells  which  they  had  made  while  dreaming  their  girl- 
ish day-dreams  about  love.  They  smiled  at  those  dreams  now 
with  a superior  air,  and  to  those  who  still  dreamed  they  had  the 
satisfaction  of  stating  that  the  reality  was  quite  different.  They 
were  pleased  to  be  among  the  initiated  who  knew  what  it  reallv 
meant  — and  they  were  perhaps  content. 

But  there  was  happiness  all  the  same  in  not  being  content, 
in  refusing  to  put  up  with  things  and  be  thankful  when  life 
offered  things  of  little  worth;  far  better  to  say:  I believe  in 

my  dreams;  I will  call  nothing  happiness  but  that  which  I 
claim,  and  I believe  it  exists.  If  it  is  not  to  be  mine,  it  is 
my  own  fault;  it  is  because  I have  been  one  of  the  foolish 
virgins  who  did  not  watch  and  wait  for  the  bridgegroom,  but 
the  wise  will  see  him  and  will  enter  in  with  rejoicing. 

When  Jenny  came  home  she  saw  there  was  a light  in  her 
mother’s  room,  so  she  went  in  to  tell  her  about  the  party  at 
Ahlstrom’s  studio,  and  how  Heggen  was.  Ingeborg  and  Bodil 
slept  farther  down  in  the  room,  with  their  black  plaits  across 
the  pillows.  Jenny  felt  no  compunction  at  standing  there 
telling  falsehoods  to  her  mother.  She  had  always  done  it  from 
the  time  she  was  a schoolgirl  and  used  to  tell  merry  tales  about 
the  children’s  parties,  where  she  had  in  reality  been  sitting 
alone,  watching  the  others  dance  — an  unhappy  and  lonely  lit- 
tle girl  who  could  not  dance  or  talk  of  anything  that  the  boys 
cared  for. 

When  Ingeborg  and  Bodil  came  home  from  a dance  their 
mother  sat  up  in  bed  listening  and  smiling  and  asking  ques- 
tions, young  and  rosy  in  the  lamplight,  and  they  could  always 
tell  the  truth,  because  it  was  full  of  merriment  and  laughter. 


JENNY 


209 

There  may  have  been  a thing  or  two  so  nice  that  they  wanted  to 
keep  it  to  themselves,  but  it  did  not  matter,  for  their  smiles 
were  true. 

Jenny  kissed  her  mother  good-night.  Passing  through  the 
sitting-room,  she  happened  to  pull  down  a photograph;  she 
picked  it  up,  knowing  in  the  dark  that  it  was  a brother  of  her 
own  father,  with  his  wife  and  little  girls.  He  had  lived  in 
America,  and  she  had  never  seen  him;  he  was  dead,  and  his 
picture  stood  in  its  place  without  anybody  ever  thinking  of  it. 
She  herself  dusted  it  every  day,  yet  never  looked  at  it. 

She  went  into  her  own  room  and  began  to  take  down  her 
hair. 

She  had  always  lied  to  her  mother  — could  she  ever  have 
been  truthful  to  her  without  making  her  suffer,  and  to  what 
purpose?  Mother  would  never  have  understood.  She  had  had 
happiness  and  sorrow  since  she  was  quite  young;  she  had  been 
happy  with  Jenny’s  father  and  had  bemoaned  his  death,  but 
she  had  her  child  to  live  for,  and  learnt  to  be  content.  Then 
she  met  Nils  Berner,  who  filled  her  life  with  fresh  happiness  and 
fresh  sorrow  — and  again  the  children  consoled  her,  inasmuch 
as  they  filled  the  emptiness  of  her  life.  The  joy  of  motherhood 
is  bought  with  too  much  suffering;  it  is  too  actual,  when  held 
living  in  one’s  arms,  for  one  ever  to  doubt  its  existence.  To 
love  one’s  child  is  so  natural  that  there  is  no  cause  for  reflec- 
tion. A mother  never  doubts  that  she  loves  her  child,  or  that 
she  wants  it  to  be  happy  — that  she  does  her  best  for  it,  or 
that  it  returns  her  love.  The  grace  of  nature  is  so  great  to 
mothers  that  children  instinctively  shrink  from  confiding  their 
sorrows  and  disappointments  to  her;  illness  and  money  troubles 
are  almost  the  only  sorrows  she  ever  gets  to  know.  Never  the 
irreparable,  the  shame,  the  failures  in  life,  and  were  she  told 
of  them  ever  so  emphatically  by  her  own  children,  she  would 
never  believe  they  were  irreparable. 

Her  mother  was  not  to  know  anything  about  her  sorrow  — 


210  JENNY 

nature  itself  had  raised  a wall  between  them.  Rebecca  Gram 
would  never  know  a tenth  part  of  the  sufferings  her  children 
had  endured  for  her  sake.  And  a friend  of  her  mother’s  was 
still  mourning  her  handsome  boy,  who  had  been  killed  by  an 
accident,  and  dreaming  of  the  future  that  would  have  been  his; 
she  was  the  only  person  who  did  not  know  that  he  had  shot 
himself  as  the  only  way  of  escape  from  insanity. 

Love  of  one’s  children  did  not  exclude  any  other  love;  one 
or  twTo  mothers  among  her  acquaintances  had  lovers,  and  be- 
lieved that  the  children  did  not  know.  Some  were  divorced, 
and  found  happiness  in  new  ties;  only  if  the  new  love  brought 
disappointment  did  they  ever  complain  or  regret.  Her  own 
mother  had  idolized  her  — yet  there  was  room  for  Berner  in 
her  heart  too,  and  she  had  been  happy  with  him.  Gert  had 
been  fond  of  his  children  — and  a father’s  affection  is  more 
understanding,  more  a matter  of  reflection  and  less  instinctive 
than  a mother’s  — yet  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  Helge  all  last 
winter. 


II 

JENNY  had  been  to  fetch  their  mail  bag  at  the  station;  and 
gave  Francesca  the  papers  and  the  letters,  and  opened 
the  one  addressed  to  herself.  Standing  on  the  gravel  of 
the  station  platform  in  the  blazing  sun,  she  looked  through 
Gert’s  long  effusion,  reading  the  expressions  of  love  at  the  be- 
ginning and  the  end  and  skipping  the  rest,  which  was  only  a 
mass  of  observations  on  love  in  general.  She  put  it  back  in 
the  envelope  and  placed  it  in  her  hand-bag.  Ugh ! those  letters 
from  Gert  — she  could  not  be  bothered  to  read  them.  Even' 
word  proved  to  her  that  they  did  not  understand  one  another; 
she  felt  it  when  they  talked  together,  but  in  writing  it  w'as 
more  painfully  distinct  still.  Yet  there  was  a mental  relation- 


JENNY 


211 


ship  between  them  — how  was  it  that  they  did  not  harmonize? 
Was  he  stronger  or  weaker  than  she?  He  had  lost  repeatedly, 
had  resigned,  stooped,  and  submitted  in  every  way,  and  yet 
he  went  on  hoping,  living,  and  believing.  Was  it  weakness  or 
vitality?  She  could  not  make  out. 

Was  it  the  difference  in  their  ages  after  all?  He  was  not 
old,  but  his  youthfulness  belonged  to  another  period,  when 
youth  was  more  unsophisticated  and  had  a healthier  creed. 
Perhaps  she  was  naive  too  — with  her  aims  and  opinions  — 
but  it  was  in  a quite  different  way.  Words  change  their  mean- 
ings after  twenty  years  — was  that  the  reason? 

The  gravel  glittered  red  and  purple,  and  the  paint  on  the 
station  building  was  blistered  by  the  scorching  sun.  As  she 
looked  up  everything  went  dark  before  her  eyes  for  a moment; 
it  was  a peculiar  sensation,  but  probably  the  effect  of  the  heat, 
which  she  seemed  to  feel  more  than  usual  this  summer. 

The  haze  hung  trembling  over  fields  and  meadows,  reaching 
right  out  to  where  the  forest  lay,  a dark  green  line  under  the 
deep  blue  summer  sky.  The  foliage  of  the  birches  had  already 
changed  its  colour  to  a darker  green. 

Cesca  was  reading  a letter  from  her  husband.  Her  linen 
dress  was  strikingly  white  against  the  dark  gravel  of  the  plat- 
form. 

Gunnar  Heggen’s  luggage  had  been  put  on  the  pony  cart, 
and  he  stood  stroking  the  horse’s  head  and  talking  to  it  while 
he  waited  for  the  ladies.  Cesca  put  her  letter  in  her  pocket, 
shaking  her  head  as  if  trying  to  drive  away  a thought. 

“ Sorry  to  keep  you  so  long,  boy  — now  let  us  start.”  Jenny 
and  Cesca  took  the  front  seat;  she  was  taking  the  reins  herself. 
“ I am  so  pleased,  Gunnar,  that  you  could  come.  Won’t  it  be 
nice  to  be  together  again  for  a few  days,  we  three?  Lennart 
sends  his  love  to  both  of  you.” 

“ Thanks  — is  he  all  right?  ” 

“ Oh  yes  — first-rate,  thanks.  Brilliant  idea  of  father, 


212 


JENNY 


wasn’t  it,  to  go  away  with  Borghild  and  leave  the  house  to  me 
and  Jenny?  Old  Gina  looks  after  us,  and  is  ready  to  stand  on 
her  head  for  us.  I call  it  perfectly  lovely.” 

“ It  is  delightful  to  see  you  again,  you  two.” 

He  laughed  and  chatted  with  them,  but  Jenny  imagined  she 
noticed  a touch  of  sadness  behind  his  merry  talk.  She  knew 
that  she  looked  worn  and  tired  herself,  and  Cesca  in  her  cheap, 
ready-made  costume  looked  like  a tomboy  beginning  to  get 
old  without  having  been  properly  grown  up.  Cesca  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  very  much  in  the  one  year  they  had  been  sepa- 
rated, but  she  chatted  on  as  before,  telling  them  wThat  they  were 
going  to  have  for  dinner,  that  they  would  have  coffee  in  the 
garden,  and  that  she  had  bought  liqueurs  and  whisky  and  soda 
to  celebrate  the  occasion  of  their  visit. 

That  night,  when  Jenny  came  into  her  bedroom,  she  sat 
down  on  the  window-seat  to  cool  her  face  in  the  fresh  breeze 
made  by  the  fluttering  curtain.  She  was  not  sober;  it  was  an 
extraordinary  thing,  but  it  was  a fact.  She  could  not  under- 
stand how  it  had  happened ; all  she  had  had  was  one  glass  and 
a half  of  toddy  and  a couple  of  small  liqueurs  after  supper. 
True,  she  had  not  eaten  much,  but  she  had  no  appetite  lately. 
She  had  had  strong  coffee,  so  perhaps  it  was  that  and  the  cig- 
arettes which  affected  her,  although  she  smoked  much  less  now 
than  she  used  to. 

Her  heart  beat  irregularly,  and  hot  waves  were  rushing  over 
her  till  she  felt  moist  all  over.  The  landscape  she  was  looking 
at  from  the  window,  the  greyish  fields,  the  soft  coloured  flower- 
beds in  the  garden,  and  the  dark  trees  against  the  pale  summer 
sky  turned  and  twisted  before  her  eyes,  and  the  room  seemed 
turning  round.  A taste  of  whisky  and  liqueur  rose  to  her 
throat.  How  horrid ! 

She  spilt  the  water  when  she  poured  some  in  the  basin,  and 
she  felt  unsteady  on  her  feet.  Jenny  mia,  this  is  scandalous. 
You  will  soon  be  done  for,  my  girl,  if  you  cannot  stand  that 


JENNY 


213 

much.  In  the  olden  days  you  could  have  taken  twice  as  much. 

She  bathed  her  face  and  her  hands  for  a while,  keeping  her 
wrists  under  water;  then  she  pulled  off  her  clothes  and  squeezed 
the  full  sponge  over  her  body.  She  was  wondering  if  Cesca 
and  Gunnar  had  noticed  it;  she  had  not  realized  it  herself  till 
she  got  to  her  room;  a good  thing  the  Colonel  and  Borghild  had 
not  been  there. 

She  felt  better  after  her  wash,  got  into  her  nightdress,  and 
went  to  sit  by  the  window  again.  Her  thoughts  were  wander- 
ing about  confusedly,  calling  up  fragments  of  conversation  be- 
tween Cesca  and  Gunnar,  but  all  of  a sudden  she  felt  wide 
awake,  realizing  with  vivid  surprise  that  she  had  been  drunk. 
Never  before  had  she  had  such  an  experience;  she  used  scarcely 
to  feel  it  at  all,  even  if  she  took  quite  a lot  of  wine. 

Anyhow,  it  had  passed  off  now,  and,  feeling  limp  and  cold 
and  sleepy,  she  went  to  lie  down  in  the  big  bed.  Fancy  if  she 
were  to  wake  up  tomorrow  with  a “head” — that  would  be  a 
new  experience. 

She  had  scarcely  settled  down  in  the  bed  and  closed  her  eyes 
when  the  disagreeable  heat  again  stole  over  her,  plunging  her 
whole  body  in  a bath  of  perspiration.  The  bed  seemed  to  rock 
under  her  like  a ship  in  a storm,  and  she  felt  sea-sick.  Lying 
perfectly  still,  she  tried  to  overcome  the  nausea,  telling  herself: 
I will  not,  I will  not,  but  it  was  no  good.  Her  mouth  filled 
with  water,  and  she  had  scarcely  time  to  get  up  before  she  was 
overcome  with  sickness. 

Heavens!  Was  she  really  as  drunk  as  that?  It  became 
most  embarrassing,  but  it  ought  to  be  over  now.  She  tidied 
up,  drank  some  water,  and  went  to  bed  again,  hoping  to  sleep 
it  away,  but  after  a brief  moment  of  rest,  with  her  eyes  shut, 
the  rocking  began  again  and  with  it  the  heat  and  the  nausea. 
It  was  astonishing,  for  her  head  was  now  quite  clear  — yet  she 
had  to  get  up  once  more. 

Stepping  back  into  bed,  a thought  suddenly  struck  her. 


JENNY 


214 

Nonsense!  She  lay  down  again,  pressing  her  neck  deep  into 
the  pillows.  It  was  impossible.  She  did  not  want  to  think 
of  it,  but,  unable  to  dismiss  the  thought  from  her  mind,  she 
began  a review  of  recent  events.  She  had  not  felt  quite  well 
lately,  had  been  tired  and  worn  out,  worried  and  nervous  gen- 
erally; that  was  probably  why  the  little  she  had  taken  last  night 
had  been  too  much  for  her.  She  could  quite  understand  now 
that  people  become  abstemious  after  a few  nights  of  the  kind 
she  had  just  experienced.  The  other  matter  she  would  not  con- 
sider; if  things  had  gone  wrong  she  would  know  it  in  due  time 
- — ■ it  was  no  good  worrying  unnecessarily.  She  was  going  to 
sleep ; she  was  so  tired  — but  she  could  not  keep  her  thoughts 
away  from  that  awful  subject  — ugh! 

At  the  beginning  of  their  relations  the  possibility  of  con- 
sequences had  quite  naturally  presented  itself  to  her  mind,  and 
once  or  twice  she  had  been  in  the  throes  of  anxiety,  but  she  had 
been  able  to  master  it  and  had  forced  herself  to  look  reasonably 
at  the  matter.  What  if  it  were  true?  The  dread  of  having 
a child  is  really  a senseless  superstition;  it  happens  every  day. 
Why  should  it  be  worse  for  her  than  for  any  poor  working 
girl,  who  was  able  to  provide  for  herself  and  her  child?  The 
anxiety  was  a remnant  from  the  times  when  an  unmarried 
woman  in  similar  circumstances  had  to  go  to  the  father  or  her 
relations  and  confess  that  she  had  had  a good  time,  and  that 
they  had  to  pay  the  expenses  — with  the  sad  prospect  of  never 
afterwards  having  her  provided  for  by  somebody  else  — a quite 
sufficient  reason  for  their  anger. 

Nobody  had  any  right  to  be  angry  with  her.  Her  mother 
would,  of  course,  be  sorry,  but  when  a grown-up  person  tried  to 
live  according  to  his  conscience  the  parents  had  nothing  to  say. 
She  had  tried  to  help  her  mother  as  much  as  possible,  she  had 
never  worried  her  with  her  own  troubles,  her  reputation  had 
never  been  spoilt  by  any  tales  of  levity,  flirtation,  or  revelling, 
but  where  her  own  opinions  about  right  and  wrong  differed 


JENNY 


215 

from  that  of  other  people,  she  meant  to  follow  them,  even  if  it 
would  be  painful  to  her  mother  to  hear  disagreeable  things  said 
about  her. 

If  her  relations  with  Gert  were  a sin,  it  did  not  mean  that 
she  had  given  too  much,  but  too  little,  and  whatever  the  con- 
sequences would  be,  she  had  to  bear  them  without  complaint. 

She  could  provide  for  a child  just  as  well  as  many  a girl 
who  had  not  a tenth  part  of  her  knowledge.  There  was  still 
some  money  left  of  her  inheritance  — enough  for  her  to  go 
abroad.  If  the  profession  she  had  chosen  was  a poor  one,  she 
knew  that  several  of  her  fellow-artists  were  able  to  keep  wife 
and  children  with  it,  and  she  had  been  used  to  helping  others 
from  the  time  she  was  almost  a child.  She  would,  of  course, 
prefer  not  to  have  to  do  it;  so  far  everything  had  been  all  right 
— she  would  not  think  of  it. 

Gert  would  be  in  despair. 

If  it  was  true,  how  dreadful  that  it  should  happen  now.  If 
it  had  happened  when  she  loved  him,  or  thought  she  did,  and 
she  could  have  gone  away  in  good  faith,  but  now,  when  every- 
thing that  had  been  between  them  had  crumbled  to  pieces,  torn 
asunder  by  her  own  thinking  and  pondering.  . . . 

During  these  weeks  at  Tegneby  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
not  to  go  on  any  longer.  She  was  longing  to  go  away  to  new 
conditions,  new  work.  Yes,  the  longing  for  work  had  come 
back;  she  had  had  enough  of  this  sickly  desire  of  clinging  to 
somebody,  to  be  cuddled  and  petted  and  called  little  girl. 

At  the  thought  of  breaking  with  him  her  heart  winced  with 
pain.  She  shrank  from  causing  him  sorrow,  but  she  had  kept 
it  up  as  long  as  possible.  Gert  had  been  happy  while  it  lasted, 
and  he  was  free  from  the  degrading  slavery  with  his  wife. 

She  was  perfectly  resigned  to  the  thought  that  her  life  hence- 
forth would  be  work  and  solitude  only.  She  knew  she  could 
not  obiterate  the  past  months  from  her  life;  she  would  always 
remember  them  and  the  bitter  lessons  they  had  taught  her. 


2l6 


JENNY 


The  love  that  others  found  enough  was  not  enough  for  her  — it 
was  better  for  her  to  dispense  with  it  altogether  than  to  be  con- 
tented. 

Yes,  she  would  remember,  but  as  years  went  by  the  memory 
of  the  short  happiness  mixed  with  so  much  pain  and  bitter 
repentance  would  perhaps  be  less  poignant,  and  she  would  be 
able  partly  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  done  a deadly  wrong  — and  whose  child  perhaps  she 
bore. 

No;  it  was  impossible.  Why  lie  here  brooding  over  it? 

But  if  it  were  true.  . . . 

When  Jenny  at  last  sank  into  a heavy  and  dreamless  sleep 
it  was  almost  daylight,  but  when  she  awoke  again  with  a shock, 
it  was  not  much  lighter.  The  sky  was  a little  more  yellow 
above  the  garden  trees,  and  the  birds  were  chirping  sleepily. 
She  was  instantly  wide  awake,  and  the  same  thoughts  returned; 
she  would  hardly  get  any  more  sleep  that  night,  and  sjie  re- 
signed herself  to  thinking  them  over  and  over  again. 


Ill 

HEGGEN  had  left;  the  Colonel  and  Borghild  had  re- 
turned and  gone  again  to  pay  a visit  to  a married 
sister  of  Francesca’s.  Jenny  and  Cesca  were  alone, 
and  they  went  about  by  themselves,  deep  in  their  own  thoughts. 

Jenny  was  convinced  now  of  her  condition,  but  she  had  not 
been  able  to  realize  what  it  all  meant;  if  she  tried  to  think  of 
the  future,  her  imagination  stood  still.  She  was,  on  the  whole, 
in  a better  frame  of  mind  now  than  in  the  first  desperate  weeks 
when  she  was  waiting  anxiously  for  her  suspicions  to  be  dis- 
proved. 


JENNY 


217 

She  told  herself  that  there  would  be  a way  out  of  it  for  her 
as  for  so  many  other  women.  Fortunately  she  had  spoken  of 
going  abroad  since  last  autumn.  She  had  not  made  up  her 
mind  about  telling  Gert  or  not,  but  she  thought  she  would 
not  do  it. 

When  she  was  not  thinking  of  herself  she  thought  of  Cesca. 
There  was  something  the  matter  — something  that  was  not  as 
it  ought  to  be.  She  was  sure  Cesca  was  fond  of  Ahlin.  Did 
he  not  care  for  her  any  longer? 

Cesca  had  had  a bad  time  of  it  this  first  year  of  her  married 
life;  there  had  been  serious  money  troubles.  Cesca  looked  so 
small  and  dejected.  Hour  after  hour  of  an  evening  she  would 
sit  on  Jenny’s  bed  telling  her  about  all  her  household  worries. 
Everything  was  so  expensive  in  Stockholm,  and  cheap  food  was 
bad,  especially  when  one  had  not  learnt  to  cook.  Housework 
was  all  so  difficult  when  one  was  brought  up  in  such  an  idiotic 
way  as  she  had  been,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  it  had  to  be 
done  over  and  over  again.  She  had  scarcely  finished  cleaning 
the  house  before  it  was  in  an  awful  state  again,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  had  finished  a meal  there  was  the  washing  up  — and 
so  it  went  on  indefinitely,  cooking  things,  soiling  plates,  and 
washing  up  again.  Lennart  tried  to  help  her,  but  he  was  just 
as  clumsy  and  unpractical  as  she  was.  Then,  too,  she  worried 
about  him.  The  commission  for  the  monument  had  been  given 
to  some  one  else  after  all;  he  was  never  appreciated,  and  yet  he 
was  so  gifted,  but  far  too  proud,  both  individually  and  as  an 
artist.  It  could  not  be  helped  — and  she  would  not  have  had 
him  different.  In  the  spring  he  had  had  a long  illness,  being 
confined  to  bed  for  two  months  with  scarlet  fever,  pneumonia, 
and  subsequent  complications  — it  had  been  a very  trying  time 
for  Cesca. 

But  there  was  something  else  — Jenny  felt  it  distinctly  — 
that  Cesca  did  not  tell  her,  and  she  knew  she  could  not  be  to 


2l8 


JENNY 


Cesca  now  what  she  had  been  in  the  old  days.  She  had  no 
longer  the  tranquil  heart  and  open  mind,  ready  to  receive  the 
sorrows  of  others  and  able  to  give  comfort;  and  it  hurt  her  to 
feel  that  she  could  no  longer  help. 

Cesca  had  gone  to  Moss  one  day  to  do  some  shopping.  Jenny 
preferred  to  stay  at  home,  and  was  spending  the  day  in  the 
garden  reading,  so  as  not  to  think.  Then,  when  she  found 
that  she  could  not  pay  attention  to  her  book,  she  started  knit- 
ting, but  soon  lost  count  of  her  stitches,  pulled  them  out,  and 
went  on  again,  trying  to  be  more  attentive.  Cesca  did  not 
come  back  to  dinner  as  she  had  promised,  and  Jenny  dined 
alone,  killing  the  afternoon  by  smoking  cigarettes  which  she 
did  not  enjoy,  and  knitting,  though  her  work  constantly  dropped 
on  to  her  lap. 

At  last,  about  ten  o’clock  Cesca  came  driving  up  the  avenue; 
Jenny  had  gone  to  meet  her,  and  the  moment  she  sat  down  be- 
side her  in  the  cart  she  saw  that  something  had  happened,  but 
neither  of  them  said  a word. 

Later,  when  Francesca  had  had  something  to  eat  and  they 
were  having  a cup  of  tea,  she  said  quietly  without  looking  at 
Jenny: 

“ Can  you  guess  whom  I met  in  town  today?  ” 

“ No.” 

“ Hans  Hermann.  He  is  on  a visit  at  the  island  and  living 
with  a rich  woman  who  seems  to  have  taken  him  up.” 

“ Is  his  wife  with  him?  ” asked  Jenny. 

“ No;  they  are  divorced.  I saw  in  the  papers  that  they  had 
lost  their  little  boy  in  the  spring.  I am  sorry  for  her  ” — and 
Cesca  began  to  talk  of  other  things. 

When  Jenny  was  in  bed  Cesca  came  quietly  into  her  room, 
sitting  down  at  the  foot  end  of  the  bed  and  pulling  her  night- 


JENNY  219 

dress  well  over  her  feet.  She  sat  with  her  arms  folded  round 
her  knees,  her  little  dark  head  making  a black  shadow  on  the 
curtain. 

“ Jenny,  I am  going  home  tomorrow.  I will  send  a wire  to 
Lennart  early  in  the  morning  and  leave  in  the  afternoon.  You 
must  stay  here  as  long  as  you  like,  and  don’t  think  me  very 
inconsiderate,  but  I dare  not  stay.  I must  go  at  once.”  She 
was  breathing  heavily.  “ I cannot  understand  it,  Jenny.  I 
have  seen  him.  He  kissed  me,  and  I did  not  strike  him.  I 
listened  to  all  he  had  to  say,  and  I did  not  strike  him  in  the 
face  as  I ought  to  have  done.  I don’t  care  for  him  — I know 
that  now  — and  yet  he  has  power  over  me.  I am  afraid.  I 
dare  not  stay,  because  I don’t  know  what  he  might  make  me 
do.  When  I think  of  him  now  I hate  him,  but  when  he  speaks 
to  me  I seem  to  get  petrified;  and  I could  not  believe  that  any- 
body could  be  so  cynical,  so  brutal,  so  shameless. 

“ It  seems  as  if  he  does  not  understand  there  is  such  a thing 
as  honour  or  shame;  they  do  not  exist  for  him,  and  he  does  not 
believe  that  anybody  else  cares  for  them  either.  His  point  of 
view  is  that  our  talking  of  right  and  wrong  is  only  speculation, 
and  when  I hear  him  speak  I seem  to  get  hypnotized.  I have 
been  with  him  all  the  afternoon,  listening  to  his  talk.  He  said 
that  as  I was  married  now  I need  not  be  so  careful  about  my 
virtue  any  longer,  or  something  to  that  effect,  and  he  alluded 
to  his  being  free  again,  so  as  to  give  me  some  hope,  I suppose. 
He  kissed  me  in  the  park  and  I wanted  to  scream,  but  could 
not  make  a sound.  Oh,  I was  so  afraid.  He  said  he  would 
come  here  the  day  after  tomorrow  — they  were  going  to  have 
a party  tomorrow  — and  all  the  time  he  smiled  at  me  with 
that  same  smile  I was  always  so  afraid  of  in  the  old  days. 

“ Don’t  you  think  I ought  to  go  home  when  I feel  like  this?  ” 

“Yes;  I think  so.” 

“ I am  a goose,  I know.  I cannot  rely  upon  myself,  as  you 


220 


JENNY 


see,  but  you  can  be  certain  of  one  thing:  if  I had  been  false  to 
Lennart,  I would  go  straight  to  him  and  tell  him,  and  kill  my- 
self the  same  instant  before  his  eyes.” 

“ Do  you  love  your  husband?  ” asked  Jenny. 

Francesca  was  silent  a moment. 

“ I don’t  know.  If  I loved  him  really  as  one  ought  to  love, 
I suppose  I should  not  be  afraid  of  Hans  Hermann.  Do  you 
think  I should  have  let  Hans  behave  like  he  did  and  kiss 
me? 

“ But  I know,  anyhow,  that  if  I did  wrong  to  Lennart  I 
could  not  go  on  living.  You  understand,  don’t  you?  While 
I was  Francesca  Jahrman  I was  not  very  careful  about  my 
good  name,  but  now  I am  Francesca  Ahlin,  and  if  I let  fall 
the  very  faintest  shadow  of  a suspicion  on  that  name  — his 
name  — I should  deserve  to  be  shot  down  like  a mad  dog. 
Lennart  would  not  do  it,  but  I would  do  it  myself.” 

She  dropped  her  arms  suddenly  and  crept  into  the  bed,  nestl- 
ing close  to  Jenny. 

“ You  believe  in  me,  don’t  you?  Do  you  think  I could  live 
if  I had  done  anything  dishonourable?  ” 

“ No,  Cesca.”  Jenny  put  her  arms  round  her  and  kissed 
her.  “ I don’t  think  you  could.” 

“ I don’t  know  what  Lennart  thinks;  he  does  not  under- 
stand me.  When  I get  home  I will  tell  him  everything  just  as 
it  is,  and  leave  it  to  him.” 

“ Cesca,”  said  Jenny,  but  checked  herself.  She  would  not 
ask,  after  all,  if  she  was  happy.  But  Cesca  began  to  tell  by 
herself : 

“ I have  had  many  difficulties  since  I married,  I must  tell 
you,  and  I have  not  been  very  happy,  but  then  I was  so  foolish 
and  ignorant  in  many  ways. 

“ I married  Lennart  because  Hans  began  to  write  to  me 
when  he  was  divorced,  saying  that  he  was  determined  to  have 


JENNY 


221 


me,  and  I was  afraid  of  him  and  did  not  want  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  him.  I told  Lennart  everything;  he  was  so  kind 
and  sympathetic  and  understood  me,  and  I thought  he  was  the 
most  wonderful  man  in  the  world  — and  so  he  is,  I know. 

“ But  I did  something  awful.  Lennart  cannot  understand 
it,  and  I know  that  he  has  not  forgiven  me.  Perhaps  I am 
wrong  in  telling  you,  but  I must  ask  somebody  if  it  is  really 
so  that  a man  can  never  forgive  it,  and  you  must  answer  me 
frankly  — tell  me  if  you  think  that  it  is  impossible  ever  to  get 
over  it. 

“ We  went  to  Rocca  di  Papa  in  the  afternoon  when  we  were 
married.  You  know  how  dreadfully  afraid  I have  always  been 
of  marriage,  and  when  Lennart  took  me  into  our  room  in  the 
evening,  I began  to  cry.  Lennart  was  such  a dear  to  me. 

“ This  was  on  a Saturday.  We  did  not  have  a particularly 
pleasant  time  — I mean  Lennart  did  not,  for  I would  have  been 
delighted  to  be  married  like  that,  and  every  morning  when  I 
awoke  I was  so  grateful  to  him,  but  I was  scarcely  allowed  to 
kiss  my  husband. 

“ On  the  Wednesday  we  had  gone  to  the  top  of  Monte  Cavo, 
and  it  was  marvellously  beautiful  up  there.  It  was  in  the  end 
of  May  and  the  day  was  glorious.  The  chestnut  wood  was 
light  green,  the  leaves  had  just  come  out,  the  broom  was  blos- 
soming madly  in  the  crevices,  and  along  the  road  grew  heaps 
of  white  flowers  and  lilies.  There  was  a haze  in  the  air,  for  it 
had  rained  earlier  in  the  day,  and  the  Nemi  and  Albano  lakes 
were  lying  silvery  white  below,  with  all  the  little  white  villages 
round.  The  whole  Campagna  and  Rome  were  wrapped  in  a 
thin  veil  of  mist,  and  farther  out  the  Mediterranean  shone  like 
a golden  line  on  the  horizon. 

“ Oh,  it  was  such  a day!  And  life  seemed  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful to  me  — but  Lennart  was  sad.  To  me  he  was  the  most 
perfect  man  in  the  world,  and  I was  immensely  fond  of  him. 


222 


JENNY 


All  of  a sudden  it  seemed  so  silly  of  me  to  make  a fuss,  and  I 
put  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  said:  ‘ I want  to  be  yours, 

for  I love  you.’  ” 

Cesca  was  silent  a second,  taking  a deep  breath. 

“ Oh,  Jenny  — how  happy  he  was,  poor  boy!  ” She  swal- 
lowed her  tears.  “He  was  so  pleased.  ‘Now?’  said  he  — 
‘here?’  and  took  me  in  his  arms,  but  I resisted.  I don’t 
know  really  why  I did  it.  It  would  have  been  beautiful  in 
the  deep  forest  and  the  sunshine. 

“ He  rushed  out  and  stayed  away  all  night.  I lay  awake.  I 
was  anxious,  wondering  what  he  had  done,  where  he  had  gone. 
Next  day  we  went  back  to  Rome  and  stayed  at  an  hotel.  Len- 
nart had  taken  two  rooms.  I went  to  him  in  his  room  — but 
there  was  no  beauty  in  it.  We  have  never  been  quite  happy 
since.  I know  that  I have  offended  him  frightfully,  but  tell 
me,  Jenny,  if  you  think  it  a thing  a man  never  can  forget  or 
forgive?  ” 

“ He  ought  to  have  realized  afterwards  that  you  did  not  un- 
derstand what  it  was  you  were  doing  — how  it  wnuld  hurt 
him.” 

“ No.”  Cesca  was  shivering.  “ But  I do  now.  I see  that 
it  was  something  pure  and  beautiful  that  I soiled,  but  I did  not 
understand  it  then.  Jenny,  do  you  think  a man’s  love  could 
ever  get  over  that?  ” 

“ It  ought  to.  You  have  proved  since  that  you  want  to  be  a 
good  and  faithful  wife  to  him.  Last  winter  you  worked  so 
hard  and  suffered  without  complaining,  and  in  the  spring  when 
he  was  ill  you  nursed  him  week  after  week,  watching  night  after 
night  by  his  bedside.” 

“ That  is  nothing  to  speak  of,”  said  Cesca  eagerly.  “ He 
was  so  good  and  patient,  and  he  helped  me  in  the  house  as 
much  as  he  could.  When  he  was  ill  some  of  our  friends  came 
sometimes  to  help  me  to  sit  up  with  him  in  the  night.  That 


JENNY 


223 

week  when  he  was  near  death  we  had  a nurse,  but  I sat  up 
just  the  same  because  I wanted  to  — although  I was  not  really 
needed.” 

Jenny  kissed  Cesca’s  forehead. 

“ There  is  one  thing  I have  not  told  you,  Jenny.  You  warned 
me,  you  remember,  to  be  more  careful  with  men,  and  said  I had 
no  instincts.  Gunnar  used  to  scold  me,  and  Miss  Linde  said 
once,  don’t  you  remember,  that  if  you  make  a man  excited  that 
way  he  goes  to  somebody  else.” 

Jenny  felt  quite  cold  with  fright  for  what  was  coming  next. 

“ Well,  I asked  him  something  about  that  on  this  first  morn- 
ing.” 

Jenny  could  not  say  a word.  “ I understand  that  he  cannot 
forget  it  and  perhaps  not  forgive,  but  I wish  he  would  find  an 
excuse  for  me,  remember  how  very  stupidly  I looked  at  it  all.” 
She  hesitated,  searching  for  words.  “ Our  life  has  been  so 
horrid  ever  since.  He  does  not  really  wish  to  kiss  me  — if  he 
ever  does,  it  is  almost  against  his  will,  and  he  is  angry  after- 
wards with  himself  and  with  me.  I have  tried  to  explain,  but 
it  is  no  good.  To  be  quite  honest,  I don’t  know  what  to  make 
of  it  all,  but  I do  not  mind  anything  any  longer  if  I could  only 
make  him  happy.  Anything  that  makes  Lennert  happy  is 
good  and  beautiful  to  me.  He  thinks  that  I sacrifice  myself, 
but  it  is  no  sacrifice  — quite  the  contrary.  Oh,  I have  cried 
for  nights  and  days  in  my  room  because  I saw  that  he  was 
longing  for  my  love,  and  I have  tried  to  kiss  him,  but  he  pushes 
me  away. 

“ I am  very  fond  of  him,  Jenny.  Tell  me,  can’t  one  love  a 
man  in  that  way  too?  — can  I not  say  that  I love  Lennart?  ” 

“Yes,  Cesca.” 

“ You  cannot  think  how  desperate  I have  been.  But  I can- 
not help  being  as  I am.  When  we  are  out  of  an  evening  with 
other  artists  I see  that  he  is  in  a bad  humour;  he  does  not  say 


224 


JENNY 


anything,  but  I see  he  thinks  I flirt  with  them.  It  is  true, 
perhaps,  for  I get  into  good  spirits  when  I can  have  a meal 
out  and  need  not  cook  and  wash  up  once  for  a change,  and  not 
be  afraid  of  spoiling  the  food  when  Lennart  has  to  eat  it  all  the 
same  because  we  cannot  afford  to  throw  it  away.  Sometimes  I 
was  glad,  too,  of  not  having  to  be  alone  with  Lennart,  though 
I am  fond  of  him  and  he  is  of  me  — I know  he  is.  If  I ask 
him  about  it  he  says,  ‘ You  know  it  quite  well,’  and  smiles  in  a 
queer  way,  but  he  does  not  trust  me  because  I cannot  love  with 
my  senses  and  yet  like  to  flirt.  Once  he  said  I had  not  a notion 
of  what  love  really  meant  and  that  it  was  his  fault  for  not 
being  able  to  awaken  it  in  me,  but  there  would  probably  be 
another  man  some  day  who  could.  O God,  how  I cried! 

“You  know  we  are  ever  so  poor.  Well,  in  the  spring  Gunnar 
managed  to  get  my  still-life  picture  sold  — the  one  I had  at  the 
exhibition  three  years  ago.  We  got  three  hundred  kroner  for 
it  and  we  lived  on  it  for  several  months,  but  Lennart  did  not 
like  spending  the  money  I had  earned.  I cannot  see  what 
difference  it  makes  when  we  are  fond  of  each  other,  but  he 
talked  about  having  brought  me  into  misery  and  so  on.  We 
have  got  debts  too,  of  course,  so  I wanted  to  write  to  father 
asking  him  for  a few  hundreds,  but  he  would  not  let  me.  I 
thought  it  so  ridiculous.  Borghild  and  Helga  have  lived  at 
home  or  abroad  all  these  years  and  had  everything  given  to 
them,  whereas  I have  saved  and  pinched  with  the  little  I had 
from  mother  since  I came  of  age,  because  I did  not  want  to  take 
anything  from  papa  after  what  he  said  to  me  when  I broke 
my  engagement  with  Kaasen  and  there  was  all  the  talk  about 
Hans  and  me.  Father  has  since  admitted  that  I was  right. 
It  was  mean  of  Kaasen  and  of  them  at  home  to  try  and  force 
me  to  marry  him  because  he  had  beguiled  me  into  an  engage- 
ment when  I was  only  seventeen,  and  did  not  know  that  mar- 


JENNY 


225 

riage  meant  anything  else  but  what  you  read  in  silly  girl  stories. 
When  I began  to  understand,  I knew  I would  rather  kill  my- 
self than  marry  him.  If  they  had  succeeded  in  forcing  me  to 
it,  I would  have  led  them  a life,  taking  all  the  lovers  I could 
get  just  out  of  spite  and  to  pay  them  out.  Papa  sees  it  now, 
and  he  says  I can  have  money  whenever  I want  it. 

“ Lennart  was  very  weak  after  his  illness,  and  the  doctor  said 
he  must  go  into  the  country  — and  I myself  was  tired  and  over- 
worked, so  I said  I ought  to  go  away  for  a change  and  a rest 
as  I was  going  to  have  a baby.  I got  his  permission  to  write 
to  papa  for  money.  We  got  it  and  went  to  Wårmland,  having 
a lovely  time.  Lennart  was  getting  well  and  strong,  and  I took 
up  my  painting  again.  When  he  understood  I was  not  expect- 
ing a child  really,  he  asked  if  I had  not  made  a mistake,  and 
I told  him  I had  tricked  him,  not  wanting  to  lie  to  him.  But 
he  is  angry  with  me  for  it,  and  I can  see  that  he  does  not  quite 
believe  me.  If  he  understood  my  nature,  don’t  you  think  he 
would  believe  in  me?  ” 

“ Yes,  Cesca  dear.’” 

“ You  see,  I had  told  him  the  same  thing  once  before  — about 
the  baby,  I mean  — in  the  autumn,  when  he  was  so  sad  and  we 
were  not  happy.  I wanted  him  to  be  pleased  and  to  be  kind  to 
me,  and  he  was.  It  was  a lovely  time.  I had  really  lied,  but 
I began  to  believe  it  myself  at  last,  for  I thought  God  would 
make  it  true,  so  that  I need  not  disappoint  him.  But  God  did 
not  do  it. 

“ I am  so  unhappy  because  I can’t  have  one.  Do  you  think 
it  is  true  — some  people  say  it  is  so,”  she  whispered  emotionally 
— “ that  a woman  cannot  have  a child  if  she  cannot  feel  — 
passionate  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  Jenny  sharply.  “ I am  sure  it  is  only  nonsense.” 

“ I am  sure  everything  would  come  all  right  then,  for  Len- 
nart wishes  it  so  very  much.  And  I — oh,  I think  I should  be 


226 


JENNY 


so  good  — an  angel  for  joy  at  having  a dear  little  child  of  my 
own.  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  wonderful?  ” 

“ No,”  whispered  Jenny,  confused,  “ when  you  love  each 
other.  It  would  help  you  to  get  over  many  difficulties.” 

“ Yes,  it  would.  If  it  were  not  so  awkward  I would  go  and 
see  a doctor.  Don’t  you  think  I ought  to?  I think  I will 
some  day,  but  I am  so  stupid  about  it  — I feel  so  shy.  I 
suppose  it  really  is  my  duty  as  I am  married.  I might  go  to 
a lady  doctor  — one  who  is  married  and  has  children  of  her 
own. 

“Think  of  it!  A tiny  little  creature  all  your  own;  Lennart 
would  be  so  happy!  ” 

Jenny  set  her  teeth  in  the  dark. 

“ Don’t  you  think  I ought  to  go  home  tomorrow?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I will  tell  Lennart  everything.  I don’t  know  if  he  will 
understand  me  — I don’t  myself,  but  I am  going  to  tell  him  the 
truth  always.  Should  I not,  Jenny?  ” 

“ When  you  think  it  is  right  you  should  do  so.  One  must 
always  do  what  one  thinks  right,  and  never  do  anything  one  is 
not  absolutely  sure  about.” 

“ Good-night,  Jenny  dear.”  She  embraced  her  friend  with 
sudden  earnestness.  “ Thank  you ! It  is  so  lovely  to  have  you 
to  talk  to;  you  are  so  good,  and  you  know  how  to  take  me. 
You  and  Gunnar  always  get  me  on  to  the  right  way.  I don’t 
know  what  I should  do  if  it  weren’t  for  you.” 

Then,  standing  by  the  bed,  she  said:  “Won’t  you  come 

through  Stockholm  when  you  go  abroad  this  autumn?  Please, 
do!  You  could  stay  with  us.  I am  getting  a thousand  kroner 
from  father  because  he  is  going  to  give  Borghild  the  same  for 
her  trip  to  Paris.” 

“ Thanks,  I should  like  to,  but  I don’t  know  yet  what  I am 
going  to  do.” 


JENNY 


227 

“ Do  come  if  you  can!  Are  you  sleepy?  Do  you  want  me 
to  go  now?  ” 

“ I am  a little  tired,”  and,  pulling  Cesca’s  head  down,  she 
kissed  her.  “ God  bless  you,  darling.” 

“ Thank  you.”  Cesca  went  across  the  floor  on  her  bare  feet; 
at  the  door  she  turned,  saying  in  a sad,  childish  voice:  “ I 

do  wish  Lennart  and  I could  be  happy!  ” 

IV 

GERT  and  Jenny  were  walking  side  by  side  down  the 
windy  path  under  ragged  pines.  He  stopped  to  pick 
some  little  wild  strawberries,  ran  after  her,  and  put 
them  in  her  mouth.  She  thanked  him  with  a smile,  and  he 
took  her  hand  as  they  walked  towards  the  sea  that  showed 
glittering  blue  between  the  trees. 

He  looked  bright  and  young  in  a light  summer  suit,  the 
panama  hiding  his  hair  completely.  Jenny  sat  down  near  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  Gert  lying  on  the  grass  beside  her  in  the 
shade  of  big  drooping  birches. 

It  was  scorching  hot  and  still;  the  grassy  slope  by  the  water 
was  dried  yellow.  Over  the  point  hung  a blue  metallic  bar 
of  haze  with  white  and  smoke-yellow  clouds  in  front.  The 
fjord  was  light  blue,  streaked  with  the  currents,  the  sailing 
boats  lay  still  and  white,  and  the  smoke  from  the  steamers  hung 
long  in  the  air  in  grey  strips.  There  was  a slight  swirl  of 
water  round  the  pebbles,  and  the  twigs  of  the  birches  moved 
gently  above  their  heads,  dropping  one  or  two  leaves  dried  by 
the  heat. 

One  of  them  fell  on  her  fair  curly  hair  — she  had  taken  off 
her  hat  — and  Gert  removed  it.  Looking  at  it,  he  said : 

“ Queer  how  the  rain  keeps  off  this  summer.  You  women  are 
much  better  off  than  we  are,  wearing  such  thin  dresses.  It 


228 


JENNY 


would  look  as  if  you  were  in  half-mourning  but  for  those  pink 
beads.  It  is  very  becoming,  though.” 

The  dress  was  a dead  white,  with  small  black  blossoms, 
gathered  all  over  and  held  at  the  waist  by  a black  silk  belt. 
The  straw  hat  in  her  lap  was  black,  trimmed  with  black  velvet 
roses,  and  the  pale  pink  crystal  beads  shone  against  the  delicate 
skin  of  her  neck. 

He  bent  forward  to  kiss  her  foot  above  the  rounding  of  the 
shoe,  and,  following  with  his  fingers  the  delicate  bend  of  her 
instep  in  the  thin  stocking,  grasped  her  ankle.  She  loosened 
his  hand  gently  and  he  seized  hers,  holding  it,  smiling,  in  a 
firm  grip.  She  smiled  back  at  him  and  turned  away  her  head. 

“ You  are  so  quiet,  Jenny.  Is  it  the  heat?  ” 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  and  then  was  silent  again. 

At  a short  distance  from  them,  where  the  garden  of  a villa 
reached  down  to  the  sea,  some  children  were  playing  on  a 
landing-stage;  a gramophone  was  singing  sleepily  inside  the 
house.  Now  and  again  the  breeze  brought  the  sound  of  music 
from  the  band  at  the  bathing  establishment. 

“ Gert  ” — Jenny  took  hold  of  his  hand  suddenly — “when 
I have  been  a short  time  with  mamma  and  come  back  to  town 
again,  I shall  go.” 

“Where?”  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  “Where  do 
you  think  of  going?  ” 

“To  Berlin.”  She  felt  her  voice  tremble  as  she  spoke. 

Gert  looked  into  her  face;  neither  of  them  spoke.  At  last 
he  said: 

“ When  did  you  make  up  your  mind  to  go?  ” 

“ You  know  it  has  been  my  intention  all  along  to  go  abroad 
again.” 

“ I know.  But  I mean  how  long  have  you  been  determined 
— when  did  you  decide  to  go  so  soon?  ” 

“ At  Tegneby.” 


JENNY  229 

“ I wish  you  had  told  me  before,”  said  Gram,  and  his  voice, 
low  and  calm  as  it  was,  cut  her  to  the  heart. 

She  was  silent  for  a moment. 

“ I did  not  want  to  write  it,  Gert.  I would  rather  tell  you. 
When  I wrote  you  yesterday  to  come  and  see  me  I meant  to  tell 
you,  but  I could  not.” 

His  face  turned  livid. 

“ I see.  My  God,  how  you  must  have  suffered,  child!  ” he 
exclaimed. 

“ Yes,  mostly  for  your  sake,  Gert.  I will  not  ask  you  to 
forgive  me.” 

“ I forgive  you?  Great  heavens!  Can  you  forgive  me?  I 
knew  this  day  would  come.” 

“ I suppose  we  both  did.” 

He  threw  himself  suddenly  face  downwards  on  the  ground. 
She  bent  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  neck. 

“ Oh,  my  dear  Jenny  — my  little  one  — what  have  I done  to 
you?” 

“ Dearest.  . . .” 

“ Little  white  bird,  have  I touched  you  with  my  ugly  unclean 
hands  — spotted  your  white  wings?” 

“ Gert  ” — she  took  both  his  hands,  speaking  impetuously  — 
“ listen  to  me.  You  have  done  nothing  but  what  was  good  and 
kind;  it  is  I who  have  done  wrong.  I was  tired  and  you  gave 
me  rest;  I was  cold  and  you  warmed  me.  I needed  rest  and  I 
needed  warmth;  I needed  to  feel  that  somebody  loved  me.  I 
did  not  wish  to  deceive  you,  Gert,  but  you  did  not  understand  — 
I could  not  make  you  see  that  I loved  you  in  a different  way 
— with  a very  poor  love.  Can  you  not  understand  ? ” 

“ No,  Jenny,  I don’t  believe  that  a young  innocent  girl  gives 
herself  to  a man  if  she  does  not  believe  her  love  will  last.” 

“ That  is  just  what  I ask  you  to  forgive  — I knew  you  did 
not  understand,  and  yet  I accepted  all  you  gave  me.  It  became 


JENNY 


230 

more  and  more  unendurable,  and  I realized  that  I could  not  go 
on.  I am  fond  of  you,  Gert,  but  I cannot  go  on  only  taking 
when  I can  give  you  nothing  that  is  real.” 

“ Is  this  what  you  wanted  to  tell  me  yesterday?  ” asked  Gert 
after  a pause. 

She  nodded. 

“ And  instead.  . . .” 

Jenny  turned  scarlet. 

“ I had  not  the  courage.  You  were  so  happy  to  come,  and 
I saw  that  you  had  been  longing  and  waiting.” 

He  raised  his  head  quickly:  “ You  should  not  have  done  it. 

No,  you  should  not  have  given  me  — alms.” 

Her  face  was  turned  away;  she  remembered  the  painful  hours 
of  yesterday  in  her  hot,  stuffy  studio,  hurriedly  dusting  and 
tidying  to  receive  him,  her  heart  aching  with  sorrow;  but  she 
did  not  care  to  tell  him: 

“ I did  not  quite  know  myself  — when  you  came.  I thought 
for  an  instant  — I wanted  to  make  sure.” 

“ Alms.”  He  moved  his  head  as  if  in  pain.  “ It  was  alms 
all  the  time,  then  — what  you  gave  me.” 

“ But,  Gert,  don’t  you  understand  that  it  is  just  what  I have 
accepted  from  you  — alms  — always?” 

“ No,”  he  said  abruptly,  lying  face  downwards  again.  After 
a little  he  lifted  his  head: 

“ Jenny,  is  there  any  one  else?  ” 

“ No,”  she  replied,  vexed  at  the  thought. 

“ Don’t  think  I would  reproach  you  if  there  had  been  another 
— a young  man  — your  equal;  I could  understand  that  easier.” 
“You  don’t  seem  able  to  realize  — I don’t ‘think  there  need 
be  another.” 

“ Perhaps  not.  It  seemed  to  me  more  likely,  and,  remember- 
ing what  you  wrote  about  Heggen  being  at  Tegneby  and  going 
to  Berlin.  . . .” 

Jenny  blushed  deeply: 


JENNY 


231 


“How  can  you  think  that  I would  have  — yesterday?  ” 

Gert  was  silent.  Then  he  said  wearily: 

“ I cannot  quite  make  you  out.” 

She  was  suddenly  seized  by  a wish  to  hurt  him. 

“ In  a way  it  would  not  be  wrong  to  say  that  there  was  an- 
other — a third  person.” 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  then  clutched  her  arm  all  of  a 
sudden : 

“ Jenny  — good  God!  — what  do  you  mean?  ” 

But  she  regretted  her  words  already,  and  said  hurriedly: 
“Yes,  my  work  — my  art.” 

Gert  Gram  had  risen  to  his  knees  before  her: 

“ Jenny  — is  there  anything- — particular  — tell  me  the  truth 
— don’t  lie  to  me  — is  there  anything  the  matter  with  you?  ” 
She  tried  for  a second  to  look  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  then 
bent  her  head.  Gert  Gram  fell  forward  with  his  face  in  her 
lap. 

“ O God!  — O God!  . . .” 

“ Gert,  dear,  compose  yourself.  You  irritated  me  with  your 
talk  about  another.  I ought  not  to  have  told  you.  I did  not 
mean  to  let  you  know  until  afterwards.” 

“ I would  never  have  forgiven  you  for  not  telling  me,”  said 
Gram.  “ You  must  have  known  this  some  time.  Do  you  know 
how  . . . ? ” 

“ Three  months,”  she  answered  shortly. 

“ Jenny  ” — he  seized  her  hands  in  awe — “ you  cannot  break 
with  me  now  — not  in  this  way.  We  cannot  part  now.” 

“ Oh  yes.”  She  stroked  his  face  caressingly.  “ If  this  had 
not  happened  I daresay  we  could  still  have  been  together  some 
time,  but  now  I must  arrange  my  life  accordingly,  and  make 
the  best  of  it.” 

He  was  silent  a moment. 

“ Listen  to  me,  little  one.  You  know  I was  divorced  last 


JENNY 


232 

month.  In  two  years’  time  I shall  be  free,  and  then  I will 
come  to  you  to  give  you  — and  it  — my  name.  I ask  nothing 
from  you,  you  understand  — nothing  — but  I claim  the  right 
to  give  you  the  redress  I owe  you.  God  knows  I shall  suffer 
because  it  cannot  be  done  before.  Nothing  else  will  I claim; 
you  shall  not  be  tied  in  the  least  to  me  — an  old  man.” 

“ Gert,  I am  glad  that  you  are  separated  from  her,  but  I 
will  tell  you  once  and  for  all  that  I am  not  going  to  marry  you 
when  I cannot  be  your  wife  in  truth.  It  is  not  because  of  the 
difference  in  age.  If  I did  not  feel  that  I have  never  wholly 
been  yours,  as  I should  have  been,  I would  stay  with  you  — - 
your  wife  as  long  as  you  were  young,  your  friend  when  old 
age  came  — even  your  nurse  — willingly  and  happily.  But  I 
know  I cannot  be  what  a wife  ought  to  be,  and  I cannot  promise 
a thing  I could  not  keep  just  because  of  what  other  people  might 
say  — church  or  civil  contract,  it  makes  no  difference.” 

“ It  is  madness,  Jenny,  to  talk  like  that.” 

“ You  cannot  make  me  change  on  that  point,”  she  replied 
quietly. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do,  child?  I cannot  let  you  go 
now.  What  will  happen  to  you?  — you  must  let  me  help  you.” 
“ Hush.  You  see  I take  it  calmly.  I suppose  once  you  are 
in  for  it,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  you  imagine.  Fortunately  I have 
still  some  money  left.” 

“ But,  Jenny,  think  of  the  people  who  will  be  unkind  to  you 
— look  down  on  you.” 

“ Nobody  can  do  that.  There  is  only  one  thing  I am  ashamed 
of,  and  it  is  that  I allowed  you  to  waste  your  love  on  me.” 

“ Such  foolish  talk!  You  don’t  know  how  heartless  people 
can  be;  they  will  treat  you  unkindly,  insult  and  hurt  you.” 

“ I don’t  mind  that  very  much,  Gert.”  She  smiled  vaguely. 
“ Fortunately  I am  an  artist;  people  expect  a little  scandal 
now  and  then  from  us.” 

He  shook  his  head.  In  a sudden  desperate  regret  at  having 


JENNY 


233 

told  him  and  given  him  so  much  pain  she  took  him  in  her 
arms: 

“ My  dear  friend,  you  must  not  be  so  distressed  — you  see 
that  I am  not.  On  the  contrary,  I am  sometimes  quite  happy 
about  it.  When  I think  that  I am  going  to  have  a child  — a 
sweet  little  child,  my  very  own  — I can  scarcely  believe  it. 
I think  it  will  be  so  great  a happiness  that  I can  hardly  grasp 
it  now.  A little  living  being,  to  belong  to  me  only,  to  love,  to 
live  and  work  for.  I sometimes  think  that  then  only  will  my 
life  and  my  work  be  of  some  purpose.  Don’t  you  think  I could 
make  a name  for  myself  good  enough  for  the  child  too?  It  is 
only  because  I don’t  know  yet  how  to  arrange  it  all  that  I am 
a little  depressed  sometimes,  and  also  because  you  are  so  sad. 

“ Perhaps  I am  poor  and  dull  and  an  egoist,  but  I am  a 
woman,  and  as  such  I cannot  but  be  happy  at  the  prospect  of 
being  a mother.” 

He  kissed  her  hands: 

“My  poor,  brave  girl!  It  makes  it  almost  worse  for  me  to 
see  you  take  it  that  way.” 

Jenny  smiled  faintly: 

“ Would  it  not  be  worse  still  if  I took  it  in  another  way?  ” 


V 

TEN  days  later  Jenny  left  for  Copenhagen.  Her 
mother  and  Bodil  Berner  saw  her  off  at  the  station 
in  the  early  morning. 

“ You  are  a lucky  one,  Jenny!  ” said  Bodil,  smiling  all  over 
her  little  soft  brown  face.  And  she  yawned  till  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes. 

“ Yes,  some  must  be  the  lucky  ones,  I suppose.  But  I don’t 
think  you  have  anything  to  complain  of  either,”  said  Jenny, 
smiling  too;  but  she  was  several  times  on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  tears  when  she  kissed  her  mother  farewell.  Standing  at 


JENNY 


234 

the  compartment  window  looking  at  her,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had 
not  really  seen  her  mother  for  ever  so  long.  She  took  in  with 
her  eyes  the  slightly  stooping,  slender  figure,  the  fair  hair  that 
scarcely  seemed  grey  at  all,  and  the  strangely  unaffected  girlish 
expression  of  her  face,  despite  its  wrinkles.  Only  the  years, 
not  life,  had  made  the  furrows,  in  spite  of  all  she  had  gone 
through. 

How  would  she  take  it  if  she  knew?  No,  she  would  never 
have  the  courage  to  tell  her  and  see  her  under  the  blow  — she 
who  knew  nothing  about  it  all  and  would  not  have  understood. 
If  it  had  been  impossible  to  go  away  Jenny  thought  she  would 
rather  have  taken  her  life.  It  was  not  love  — it  was  cowardice. 
She  would  have  to  tell  her  sometime,  of  course,  but  it  would  be 
easier  to  do  that  later,  from  abroad. 

As  the  train  began  to  glide  out  from  the  station  she  saw  Gert 
walking  slowly  down  the  platform  behind  her  mother  and  sis- 
ter, who  were  waving  their  handkerchiefs.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
looking  very  pale. 

It  was  the  first  of  September.  Jenny  sat  by  the  window  look- 
ing out.  It  was  a beautiful  day,  the  air  clear  and  cool,  the 
sky  dark  blue,  and  the  clouds  pure  white.  The  morning  dew 
lay  heavy  on  the  rich  green  meadows  where  late  daisies  were  in 
bloom.  The  birches  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  were  already  turn- 
ing yellow  from  the  summer  heat,  and  the  bilberry  shrub  was 
copper  coloured.  The  clusters  of  the  rowan  were  deep  red; 
where  the  trees  stood  on  richer  soil  the  leaves  were  still  dark 
green.  The  colouring  was  splendid. 

On  the  slopes  stood  old  silver-grey  farmhouses  or  neur  shining 
white  or  yellow  ones  with  red-painted  outhouses  and  crooked 
old  apple  trees  with  yellow  or  glassy  green  fruit  showing  among 
the  foliage. 

Time  after  time  tears  veiled  her  eyes;  when  she  came  back  — 
if  she  ever  did.  . . . 

The  fjord  became  visible  near  Moss,  a town  built  along  the 


JENNY 


235 

canal,  with  factory  walls  and  the  small  wooden  houses  in  gay 
colours  surrounded  by  gardens.  Often  when  passing  it  in  the 
train  she  had  thought  of  going  there  some  day  to  paint. 

The  train  passed  the  junction  where  a branch  line  turns  off 
to  Tegneby.  Jenny  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  familiar 
places;  there  was  the  drive  leading  to  the  house,  which  lay 
behind  the  little  fir  grove,  and  there  was  the  church.  Dear 
little  Cesca  liked  to  go  to  church;  she  felt  herself  safe  and  pro- 
tected there,  borne  away  by  a sentiment  of  supernatural  strength. 
Cesca  believed  in  something  — she  did  not  quite  know  what, 
but  had  created  some  kind  of  a God  for  herself. 

Jenny  was  pleased  to  think  that  Cesca  and  her  husband 
seemed  to  be  getting  on  better.  She  had  written  that  he  had 
not  quite  understood  her,  but  had,  nevertheless,  been  so  kind 
and  dear  and  convinced  that  she  would  never  do  anything 
wrong  — on  purpose.  Strange  little  Cesca ! Everything  must 
come  right  with  her  in  the  end.  She  was  honest  and  good. 
But  she  herself  was  neither,  not  to  any  considerable  degree.  If 
only  she  need  not  see  her  mother’s  tears;  she  could  bear  to  hurt 
her  — it  only  meant  that  she  was  afraid  of  scenes. 

And  Gert?  Her  heart  shrank  at  the  thought  of  him.  A 
feeling  of  physical  sickness  rose  in  her,  a despair  and  loathing 
so  profound  that  she  felt  herself  played  out  — on  the  point  of 
becoming  indifferent  to  everything. 

Those  awful  last  days  in  Christiania  with  him.  She  had 
given  in  at  last. 

He  was  coming  to  Copenhagen,  and  she  had  to  promise  to 
stay  somewhere  in  the  country  so  that  he  could  come  and  see 
her.  Would  she  ever  be  able  to  get  quite  free  of  him? 

In  the  end  she  would  perhaps  have  to  leave  the  child  with  him 
and  run  away  from  it  all  — for  it  was  a lie,  all  she  had  told 
him  about  being  happy  about  it  and  the  rest.  Sometimes  at 
Tegneby  she  had  really  felt  so,  because  she  only  remembered 
it  was  her  child  — not  his  at  all.  But  if  it  were  to  be  a link 


JENNY 


236 

between  him  and  her  humiliation  she  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  She  would  hate  it  — she  hated  it  already  at  the  mem- 
ory of  the  last  days  before  her  departure.  The  morbid  desire 
to  cry  and  sob  to  her  heart’s  content  was  gone;  she  felt  dry  and 
hard  as  if  she  could  never  cry  again. 

A week  later  Gert  Gram  arrived.  She  was  so  worn  out  and 
apathetic  that  she  could  pretend  to  be  almost  in  good  spirits, 
and  if  he  had  proposed  that  she  should  move  into  the  hotel 
where  he  was  staying,  she  would  have  done  so.  She  made  him 
take  her  to  the  theatre,  to  supper  at  restaurants,  and  one  day, 
when  the  weather  was  fine,  for  an  excursion  to  Fredensborg, 
because  she  saw  that  it  pleased  him  if  she  seemed  wrell  and 
happy.  She  gave  up  thinking  — it  was  no  sacrifice,  for  as  a 
matter  of  fact  her  brain  was  tired  out. 

Jenny  had  taken  rooms  with  a teacher’s  widow  in  a country 
village.  Gram  accompanied  her  there  and  went  back  the  same 
evening  to  Copenhagen.  At  last  she  was  alone. 

She  had  engaged  the  rooms  without  seeing  them  beforehand. 
When  she  had  been  studying  in  Copenhagen  some  years  ago  she 
had  gone  with  her  fellow-students  into  the  country  one  day, 
lunching  at  an  inn  and  bathing  among  the  rocks,  and  she 
remembered  it  was  pretty  out  there,  so  when  a certain  Mrs. 
Rasmussen,  in  answer  to  her  advertisement,  had  offered  to 
house  the  young  lady  who  was  expecting  a child,  she  decided 
to  go  there. 

The  widow  lived  in  a tiny  yellow,  sadly  ugly  brick  cottage 
outside  the  village  by  the  main  road,  which  ran  dusty  and 
endless  between  open  tilled  fields,  but  Jenny  was  pleased  on 
the  whole.  She  liked  her  bedroom  with  the  blue  wall-paper,  the 
etchings  on  the  wall,  and  the  white  crochet-work  d’oyleys  all 
over  the  place,  on  the  bed,  on  the  back  of  the  American  rocking- 
chair,  and  on  the  chest,  where  Mrs.  Rasmussen  had  placed  a 
bunch  of  roses  the  day  she  arrived. 


JENNY  237 

From  her  two  little  windows  she  could  see  the  main  road 
winding  past  the  house  and  the  small  front  garden,  where 
roses,  geraniums,  and  fuchsias  grew,  heedless  of  the  dust.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  road  was  a bare  hill  at  the  back  of  the 
field.  Stone  fences,  along  which  the  vividly  coloured  autumn 
flowers  grew  between  bramble  bushes,  divided  the  slope  into 
squares  of  stubble,  greeny-brown  meadow,  and  blue-green  turnip 
field;  spriggy  wind-blown  willow  bushes  grew  along  the  bound- 
aries. When  the  evening  sun  had  left  Jenny’s  window  the  sky 
was  flaming  red  and  golden  above  the  ridge  and  the  meagre 
twigs  of  the  willows. 

At  the  back  of  her  room  was  a neat  doll’s-house  kitchen  with 
red  brick  floor,  opening  into  the  back  yard,  where  the  widow’s 
chickens  were  cackling  and  the  pigeons  cooing.  A small  pas- 
sage ran  through  the  house;  on  the  farther  side  Mrs.  Rasmussen 
had  her  parlour,  with  flower-pots  in  the  window  and  crochet 
work  everywhere,  daguerreotypes  and  photographs  on  the  walls, 
and  a book-case  with  religious  books  in  black  paper  covers, 
bound  volumes  of  periodicals,  and  a few  novels.  At  the  back 
was  a small  room  where  she  slept,  and  where  the  air  was  al- 
ways heavy  with  an  indefinable  odour,  though  everything  in 
the  room  was  spotlessly  clean.  She  could  not  hear  in  there  if 
her  boarder  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage  spent  a night  now 
and  again  in  tears. 

Mrs.  Rasmussen  was  not  so  bad,  on  the  whole.  Tall  and 
lanky,  she  pattered  about  in  some  kind  of  felt  slippers,  always 
with  a worried  look  on  her  long  yellow  face,  which  was  rather 
like  that  of  a horse  and  had  straggling  grey  hair  combed  back 
from  it,  forming  quaint  little  wings  over  the  ears.  She  scarcely 
ever  spoke,  save  for  an  anxious  question  as  to  whether  the  lady 
was  pleased  with  the  room  or  the  food,  and  when  Jenny  went 
to  sit  in  the  parlour  with  her  needlework  they  were  both  per- 
fectly quiet.  Jenny  was  specially  grateful  to  the  woman  for 


JENNY 


238 

not  mentioning  her  condition;  only  once  when  she  went  out 
with  her  painting  paraphernalia  did  Mrs.  Rasmussen  ask  her 
anxiously  if  she  did  not  think  it  unwise.  She  had  worked  hard 
at  first,  standing  behind  a stone  fence  with  her  field  easel,  which 
threatened  to  be  upset  every  instant  by  the  wind. 

Below  the  stone  fence  the  stubby  rye  field  sloped  towards  a 
swamp  where  the  bog  bean  round  the  bluish  water  pools  was 
whitening,  and  velvety  black  peat  stacks  stood  piled  on  the 
grass.  Beyond  the  swamp  were  the  chalk-white  peasants’  huts 
set  in  rich  dark  green  groves  and  surrounded  by  meadows, 
stubbed  rye  fields,  and  turnip  land  as  far  as  the  wafer’s  edge. 
The  beach  was  cut  into  tiny  bays  and  points,  the  sand  and  the 
short  dried  grass  making  it  look  a whitish  yellow.  To  the 
north  a heather-brown  hill  with  a windmill  on  top  sloped  down 
towards  the  bay.  Light  and  shadow  flitted  alternately  over 
the  landscape  as  the  clouds  travelled  across  the  wide,  ever  rest- 
less sky. 

When  Jenny  got  tired  she  lay  down  by  the  fence,  looking  up 
at  the  sky  and  out  over  the  bay;  she  could  not  stand  for  long 
at  a time,  but  it  made  her  only  more  eager.  Two  small  pictures 
painted  from  the  fence  were  finished,  and  she  was  pleased  with 
them;  a third  one  she  painted  in  the  village,  where  the  low 
whitewashed  houses  with  thatched  roofs  almost  covering  the 
windows,  and  climbing  roses  and  dahlias  in  the  gardens,  stood 
along  a velvety  green  ditch,  and  a red  brick  church  stretched 
its  gabled  tower  above  the  foliage  of  the  vicarage  garden.  But 
it  made  her  nervous  when  people  came  to  look  at  her,  and 
flaxen-haired  youngsters  clustered  round  her  when  she  was 
painting.  When  the  picture  was  finished  she  moved  with  her 
easel  again  to  the  stone  fence. 

In  October  the  rain  came,  pouring  down  for  a week  or  two. 
Now  and  again  the  skies  cleared  a little,  letting  out  a sickly 
yellow  ray  of  light  between  the  clouds  over  the  hill  with  the 
pitiable  willows,  and  the  puddles  in  the  road  lay  shining  a 


JENNY 


239 


little  while  before  the  rain  troubled  their  surface  again. 

Jenny  borrowed  Mrs.  Rasmussen’s  books  and  learnt  to  knit 
the  kind  of  lace  that  bordered  her  curtains,  but  neither  reading 
nor  knitting  came  to  much.  She  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  by  the 
window  all  day  long,  not  even  caring  to  dress  properly,  only 
wearing  her  old  faded  kimono.  As  her  condition  became  more 
and  more  apparent  she  suffered  agonies. 

Gert  Gram  had  written  to  say  he  was  coming  to  see  her, 
and  two  days  later  he  arrived,  driving  up  in  the  early  morning 
in  pouring  rain.  He  stayed  a week,  putting  up  at  the  railway 
hotel  two  miles  from  the  village,  but  spending  all  his  time  with 
her.  When  he  left  he  promised  to  come  again  soon  — possibly 
in  six  weeks. 

Jenny  lay  awake  all  night  with  her  lamp  burning.  She 
knew  she  could  not  bear  it  again;  it  had  been  too  awful.  Every- 
thing was  unbearable  from  the  moment  he  arrived  — his  first 
worried,  compassionate  glance  when  he  saw  her  — dressed  in 
a new  navy  blue  straight  frock  made  by  the  village  dressmaker. 
“ How  lovely  you  are,”  he  said,  and  declared  she  was  like  a 
madonna.  Madonna,  indeed!  His  arm  placed  cautiously 
round  her  waist,  his  long,  guarded  kiss  on  her  forehead,  made 
her  feel  as  if  she  could  die  of  shame.  And  how  he  had  worried 
her  with  his  concern  about  her  health  and  his  advice  about 
taking  enough  exercise.  One  day  when  the  rain  stopped  he 
dragged  her  for  a long  walk,  insisting  that  she  should  hang  on 
his  arm  for  support.  One  evening  he  had  looked  at  her  needle- 
work — stealthily  — expecting  probably  that  she  would  be  hem- 
ming baby  linen.  He  meant  it  all  so  kindly,  and  there  was  no 
hope  of  a change  for  the  better  when  he  would  come  again  — 
more  likely  the  reverse;  she  simply  could  not  endure  it. 

One  day  she  had  a letter  from  him  in  which,  among  other 
things,  he  said  she  ought  to  see  a doctor,  and  the  same  night 
she  wrote  to  Gunnar  Heggen  telling  him  that  she  was  expecting 
a child  in  February,  and  would  he  let  her  have  the  address  of 


240  JENNY 

a quiet  place  where  she  could  stay  until  it  was  over.  Heggen 
answered  by  return: 

“ Dear  Jenny,- — I have  advertised  in  a couple  of  papers 
and  will  send  you  the  answers  when  they  come,  so  you  can  see 
for  yourself.  If  you  would  like  me  to  go  and  look  at  some  of 
the  places  before  you  decide,  I will  do  so  with  pleasure  — you 
know  that.  I am  at  your  disposal  in  every  way.  Let  me  know 
when  you  leave,  what  way  you  are  coming,  and  if  you  want  me 
to  meet  you,  or  if  I can  help  you  in  any  other  way.  I am 
sorry  about  it,  of  course,  but  I know  you  are  comparatively  well 
equipped  to  face  trouble.  Please  write  and  say  if  there  is  any- 
thing else  I can  do  for  you;  you  know  I am  only  too  pleased 
to  be  of  any  service.  I hear  you  have  a good  picture  at  the 
State  exhibition  — congratulations. 

“ Kind  regards  from  your  sincere  friend,  G.  H.” 

A few  days  later  came  a whole  bundle  of  letters.  Jenny 
waded  through  some  of  the  writing,  printed  in  an  awful  gothic 
scrawl,  and  then  wrote  to  a Mrs.  Schlessinger  in  the  vicinity  of 
Warnemunde,  renting  a room  from  the  fifteenth  of  November. 
She  gave  Mrs.  Rasmussen  notice,  and  told  Gunnar  by  letter  of 
her  decision. 

On  the  eve  of  her  departure  she  wrote  to  Gram: 

“ Dear  Friend, — I have  formed  a decision  which  I am 
afraid  will  hurt  you,  but  you  must  not  be  angry  with  me.  I 
am  tired  and  unnerved ; I know  I was  tiresome  and  disagreeable 
to  you  when  you  were  here,  and  I don’t  want  it  to  happen  again, 
so  have  decided  not  to  see  you  until  all  is  over  and  I am  normal 
again.  I am  leaving  here  tomorrow  early,  going  abroad.  I 
am  not  giving  you  my  address  at  present,  but  you  can  send 
your  letters  via  Mrs.  Ahlin,  Varberg,  Sweden,  and  I will  write 
you  through  her.  Do  not  be  anxious  about  me.  I am  quite 


JENNY 


241 

well  and  everything  is  all  right,  but  I beg  of  you,  dear,  not  to 
try  to  get  into  communication  with  me  in  any  other  way  than 
the  one  I have  suggested.  Do  not  be  vexed  with  me,  for  I 
believe  this  arrangement  to  be  the  best  for  both  of  us,  and  please 
try  not  to  worry  about  me  more  than  you  can  help. — Yours 
affectionately,  Jenny  Winge.” 

So  she  moved  from  one  widow  to  another,  and  into  another 
small  cottage  — this  time  a red  one  with  white-washed  window- 
sills and  standing  in  a little  garden  with  flagged  paths  and 
shells  around  the  flower-beds,  where  the  dahlias  and  chysanthe- 
mums  stood  black  and  rotting.  Twenty  to  thirty  similar  houses 
stood  along  a small  street  leading  from  the  railway  station  to 
the  fishing  harbour,  where  the  waves  foamed  against  the  long 
stone  piers.  On  the  beach,  a little  away  from  the  village,  stood 
a small  hotel  with  the  shutters  up.  Endless  roads,  with  bare, 
straggling  poplars  bending  in  the  wind,  led  out  over  intermina- 
ble plains  and  swamps  past  small  brick  farms  with  a strip 
of  garden  front  and  a couple  of  haystacks  at  the  back. 

Jenny  walked  along  the  road  as  far  as  she  could  manage, 
returning  home  to  sit  in  her  little  room,  which  this  time  was 
overloaded  with  precious  knick-knacks,  coloured  plaster  casts 
of  castles,  and  merry  scenes  at  country  inns  in  brass  frames. 
She  had  not  the  strength  to  change  her  wet  shoes  even,  but  Mrs. 
Schlessinger  took  off  the  boots  and  stockings,  talking  all  the 
time,  exhorting  her  to  keep  up  her  courage,  telling  her  about  all 
the  other  young  ladies  she  had  had  in  the  house  — how  So- 
and-so  had  married  and  was  well  off  and  happy  now. 

When  she  had  been  there  a month  Mrs.  Schlessinger  came 
into  her  room  one  day,  excited  and  beaming  — a gentleman 
had  come  to  see  the  young  lady.  Jenny  was  paralysed  with 
fright,  but  managed  at  last  to  ask  what  he  looked  like.  “ Quite 
young,”  said  Mrs.  Schlessinger,  with  a lurking  smile  — “ and 


JENNY 


242 

very  nice  looking.”  It  dawned  upon  her  that  it  might  be  Gun- 
nar, and  she  got  up,  but,  suddenly  changing  her  mind,  wrapped 
herself  up  in  a rug  and  sat  down  in  the  deepest  of  her  arm- 
chairs. 

Mrs.  Schlessinger  departed,  pleased  to  announce  a visitor. 
Showing  Gunnar  into  the  room,  she  remained  an  instant  smiling 
by  the  door  before  closing  it. 

He  squeezed  her  hand,  almost  hurting  her,  and  greeted  her 
with  a beaming  smile: 

“ I thought  I had  better  come  up  here  to  see  what  kind  of 
a place  you  had  settled  on.  It  is  rather  a dull  part  of  the  world 
you  have  chosen,  but  it  is  healthy  anyway.”  He  shook  the 
water  from  his  hat  as  he  spoke. 

“ You  must  have  some  tea  and  something  to  eat,”  said  Jenny, 
making  a movement  as  if  meaning  to  rise,  but  remained  sitting, 
saying  with  a blush:  “ Do  you  mind  ringing  the  bell?  ” 

Heggen  ate  with  excellent  appetite,  talking  all  the  while. 
He  was  delighted  with  Berlin;  he  had  lived  in  a -workmen’s 
quarter  — the  Moabit  — and  spoke  with  equal  enthusiasm  about 
the  social  democrats  and  the  military,  for  “ there  is  something 
grand  and  manly  about  it,  and  the  one  stimulates  the  other.” 
He  had  been  over  some  great  factories  and  had  studied  night 
life,  having  met  a Norwegian  engineer  who  was  on  his  honey- 
moon and  a Norwegian  couple  with  two  lovely  daughters,  who 
were  dying  to  see  a little  vice  at  close  quarters.  They  had 
been  to  National,  Riche,  and  to  Amorsaale,  and  the  ladies  had 
enjoyed  it  all  immensely. 

“ But  I offended  them,  I’m  afraid  — asked  Miss  Paulsen  to 
come  home  with  me  late  one  evening.” 

“ Gunnar,  how  could  you!  ” 

“ Well,  I was  not  quite  sober,  you  understand;  it  was  only  a 
joke,  you  know.  If  by  any  chance  she  had  consented,  I should 
have  been  in  an  awful  fix.  Might  have  had  to  marry  a little 
girl  who  amuses  herself  sniffing  at  such  things  — no,  thank 


JENNY 


243 

you.  It  was  great  fun  to  see  her  so  virtuously  offended.  There 
was  no  danger  really  — little  girls  of  that  sort  don’t  give  away 
their  treasure  without  making  sure  of  a fair  return.” 

He  blushed  suddenly.  It  struck  him  that  Jenny  might  think 
it  tactless  of  him  to  speak  like  that  before  her  — now.  But  she 
only  laughed: 

“ What  mad  things  you  do!  ” 

As  Heggen  went  on  talking,  the  unnatural,  painful  shyness 
gradually  left  her.  Once  or  twice,  when  she  did  not  notice 
it,  his  eyes  anxiously  scanned  her  face  — heavens ! how  thin 
and  hollow-eyed  she  was,  and  furrowed  about  the  mouth.  The 
sinews  of  her  neck  were  prominent,  and  there  were  a couple 
of  ugly  lines  across  the  throat. 

The  rain  had  stopped,  and  she  consented  to  go  for  a walk 
with  him.  They  walked  in  the  sea-mist  along  the  deserted  road 
with  the  scraggy  poplars. 

“ Take  my  arm,”  said  Gunnar  casually,  and  Jenny  took  it, 
feeling  heavy  and  tired. 

“ It  must  be  awfully  dull  for  you  here,  Jenny  — don’t  you 
think  it  would  be  much  better  if  you  went  to  Berlin?  ” 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 

“ You  would  have  the  museums  there  to  go  to  and  other 
things  besides  — and  somebody  to  be  with  at  times.  You  don’t 
care  to  go  to  National  anyway.  Won’t  you  come,  just  for  a 
bit  of  a change?  You  must  be  deadly  dull  here.” 

“ Oh  no,  Gunnar — I could  not  go  now,  you  understand.” 

“ You  look  quite  nice  in  that  ulster,”  said  Gunnar  cautiously, 
after  a short  pause. 

Jenny  bent  her  head. 

“ Oh,  I am  a fool,”  said  he  suddenly.  “ Forgive  me.  You 
must  tell  me,  Jenny,  if  I bother  you.” 

“ Oh  no,  you  don’t  bother  me.  I am  glad  you  came.” 

“ I realize  that  it  must  be  awful  for  you,  Jenny.”  His  voice 
had  changed  completely.  “ I quite  realize  it,  but  I am  sure 


JENNY 


244 

you  are  making  it  still  worse  by  going  about  here  all  alone. 
I do  think  you  ought  to  go  somewhere  else  — somewhere  a little 
less  hopeless  than  this.”  He  was  looking  at  the  dark  plain  and 
the  rows  of  poplars  losing  themselves  in  the  distance. 

“ Mrs.  Schlessinger  is  so  very  kind,”  said  Jenny  evasively. 

“ Oh  yes,  good  soul;  I am  sure  she  is.”  He  smiled.  “ I 
think  she  suspects  me  of  being  the  culprit.” 

“ Probably,”  said  Jenny,  smiling  too. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  After  a while  Gunnar  asked: 

“How  are  you  going  to  arrange  matters?  Have  you  made 
any  plans  as  to  the  future?  ” 

“ I don’t  know  yet.  I suppose  you  mean  about  the  child? 
I may  leave  it  with  Mrs.  Schlessinger  for  a time;  she  would 
look  after  it  all  right,  I dare  say.  Or  I may  get  some  one  to 
adopt  it;  you  know,  such  children  are  adopted  sometimes.  I 
might  call  myself  Mrs.  Winge  and  never  mind  what  people 
think.” 

“ You  are  quite  decided,  then,  to  break  completely  with  — 
er  — the  man  concerned?  You  wrote  me  to  that  effect.” 

“ I am,”  she  said  firmly.  “ It  is  not  the  man  I was  engaged 
to,”  she  added,  after  a pause. 

“Thank  God!  ” he  burst  out,  so  relieved  that  Jenny  could 
not  help  smiling  a little. 

“Well,  you  know,  Jenny,  he  was  not  worth  reproducing  — 
not  by  you  anyway.  I saw  in  the  papers  recently  that  he  has 
got  his  doctor’s  degree.  Well,  it  might  have  been  worse  — I 
was  afraid  . . .” 

“ It  is  his  father,”  she  said  abruptly. 

Heggen  came  to  a dead  stop.  She  fell  to  crying  desperately, 
and  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  laid  his  hand  to  her  cheek 
while  she  went  on  sobbing  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

Standing  so,  she  began  to  tell  him  all  about  it.  Once  she 
looked  up  at  his  face;  it  was  pale  and  haggard;  and  she  started 


JENNY  245 

crying  again.  When  she  stopped,  he  lifted  her  head,  looking 
at  her: 

“My  God,  Jenny  — what  you  must  have  suffered!  I can- 
not realize  it.” 

They  walked  back  to  the  village  in  silence. 

“ Come  with  me  to  Berlin,”  he  said  suddenly.  “ I cannot 
bear  to  think  of  you  here  alone  and  brooding  over  this.” 

“ I have  almost  given  up  thinking,”  she  said,  tired. 

“ Oh,  it’s  too  awful!  ” he  burst  out,  with  such  violence  that 
she  came  to  a sudden  stop.  “ Always  the  best  of  you  that  get 
let  in  for  this  kind  of  thing,  and  we  have  no  idea  of  what  you 
have  to  go  through.  It  is  dreadful ! ” 

Heggen  stayed  three  days.  Jenny  could  not  explain  why, 
but  she  felt  much  better  after  his  visit.  The  unbearable  feel- 
ing of  humiliation  was  gone;  she  was  able  to  face  her  confine- 
ment with  more  composure  and  confidence. 

Mrs.  Schlessinger  went  about  smiling  slyly  in  spite  of  Jenny’s 
declaration  that  the  gentleman  was  her  cousin. 

He  had  offered  to  send  her  some  of  his  books,  and  at  Christ- 
mas a whole  case  arrived,  besides  flowers  and  chocolates.  Every 
week  he  wrote  her  a long  letter  about  all  manner  of  trifles,  en- 
closing cuttings  from  Norwegian  papers.  In  January  he  came 
up  for  her  birthday  and  stayed  two  days,  leaving  behind  some 
of  the  latest  Norwegian  books.  Shortly  after  his  last  visit  she 
fell  ill.  She  was  poorly,  worried,  and  sleepless  during  the 
remaining  weeks.  She  had  never  busied  her  thoughts  with 
the  actual  confinement  or  been  anxious  about  it  before,  but, 
feeling  always  wretched  now,  she  was  seized  by  a sudden  dread 
of  what  she  had  to  go  through,  and  when  the  time  came  she  was 
quite  worn  out  with  insomnia  and  anxiety. 

It  was  a nasty  case.  Jenny  was  more  dead  than  alive  when 


JENNY 


246 

the  doctor,  who  had  been  sent  for  from  Wamemunde,  at  last 
held  her  son  in  his  hands. 

VI 

JENNY’S  son  lived  six  weeks  — exactly  fourty-four  days 
and  a half,  she  said  bitterly  to  herself,  thinking  again 
and  again  of  the  short  time  she  had  felt  really  happy. 
She  did  not  cry  for  the  first  days  after  his  death,  but  she 
could  not  leave  the  dead  child,  and  sat  moaning  deep  down  in 
her  throat  and  taking  it  in  her  arms  to  caress  it: 

“ Darling  little  boy  — mother’s  pretty  little  boy,  you  must 
not  go  — I cannot  let  you  go.  Can’t  you  see  I want  you  so?  ” 
The  child  was  tiny  and  feeble  at  birth,  but  Jenny  and  Mrs. 
Schlessinger  had  both  thought  he  was  thriving  and  making 
good  progress.  Then  one  morning  he  fell  ill,  and  by  midday  it 
was  all  over. 

After  the  funeral  she  started  to  cry,  and  could  not  stop;  for 
weeks  afterwards  she  sobbed  unceasingly  night  and  day.  She 
fell  ill  herself  too;  inflammation  of  the  breasts  developed,  and 
Mrs.  Schlessinger  had  to  send  for  the  doctor,  who  performed 
an  operation.  The  despair  of  her  soul,  together  with  the  pains 
of  her  body,  gave  her  many  a dreadful,  delirious  night. 

Mrs.  Schlessinger  slept  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  on  hearing 
her  cries  of  agony,  rushed  in  and  sat  down  by  tire  bed,  com- 
forting her,  stroking  her  thin,  clammy  hands  with  her  own  fat, 
warm  ones,  and  coaxing  and  lecturing  her  a little.  It  was 
God’s  will,  and  was  probably  much  better  for  the  boy  and  for 
her  too  — still  so  young  as  she  was.  Mrs.  Schlessinger  had 
lost  two  children  herself  — little  > Bertha  when  she  was  two 
years  old,  and  Wilhelm  at  fourteen,  such  a dear  boy  too — yet 
they  were  bom  in  wedlock  and  should  have  been  the  support 
and  comfort  of  her  old  age.  But  this  little  one  would  only  have 
been  a chain  round  the  feet  of  the  Fraulein  who  was  so  young 


JENNY  247 

and  pretty.  He  had  been  very  dear  and  sweet,  the  little  angel, 
and  it  was  very  hard.  . . . 

Mrs.  Schlessinger  had  lost  her  husband  too,  and  many  of 
the  young  ladies  who  had  stayed  in  her  house  had  seen  their 
little  ones  die;  some  of  them  had  been  pleased,  others  had  put 
their  babies  out  to  nurse  at  once  so  as  to  get  rid  of  them.  It 
was  not  nice,  of  course,  but  what  could  one  do?  Some  had 
cried  and  wailed  as  Jenny  did,  but  they  got  over  it  in  time,  and 
married  and  settled  down  happily  afterwards.  But  a despair 
like  Fraulein’s  she  had  never  yet  witnessed. 

Mrs.  Schlessinger  suspected  in  her  heart  that  her  patient’s 
despair  was  caused  to  a great  extent  by  the  departure  of  the 
cousin  first  to  Dresden  and  then  to  Italy  just  about  the  time 
the  boy  died.  But  that  is  exactly  what  they  always  did  — the 
men. 

The  memory  of  those  maddening,  agonizing  nights  was  ever 
afterwards  associated  with  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Schlessinger 
sitting  on  the  stool  by  her  bed  while  the  light  rays  from  the 
lamp  were  refracted  in  the  tears  dropping  from  her  small,  kind 
eyes  on  to  her  round  red  cheeks.  And  her  mouth,  which  did 
not  stop  talking  for  a second,  her  little  grey  plait  of  hair,  the 
white  night-jacket  trimmed  with  pointed  lace,  and  her  petticoat 
of  grey  and  pink  stripped  flannel  scalloped  at  the  bottom. 
And  the  small  room  with  plaster  medallions  in  brass  frames. 

She  had  written  to  Heggen  about  her  great  joy,  and  he  had 
replied  saying  he  would  have  loved  to  come  and  have  a look 
at  the  boy,  but  the  journey  was  long  and  expensive  and  he  was 
on  the  point  of  starting  for  Italy.  He  sent  his  best  wishes  to 
her  and  the  little  prince,  hoping  to  welcome  them  both  in  Italy 
soon.  At  the  time  of  the  child’s  death  Heggen  was  in  Dresden 
and  sent  her  a long  and  sympathetic  letter. 

As  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  to  write  she  sent  a few  lines 
to  Gert,  giving  him  her  address,  but  asking  him  not  to  come  and 
see  them  until  the  spring,  when  baby  would  be  big  and  pretty. 


JENNY 


248 

Only  his  mother  could  see  now  that  he  was  lovely.  She  wrote 
him  a longer  letter  when  she  was  up  and  about  again. 

On  the  day  the  child  was  buried  she  wrote  telling  Gram  in  a 
few  words  of  her  loss,  informing  him  of  her  intention  to  go 
south  the  same  evening,  and  asking  him  not  to  expect  to  hear 
from  her  until  she  was  more  like  herself  again.  “ Do  not 
worry  about  me,”  she  wrote.  “ I am  fairly  composed  now, 
but  hopelessly  miserable,  of  course.” 

Her  letter  crossed  one  from  Gert,  who  wrote: 

“ My  Dearest  Jenny, — Thank  you  for  your  last  letter.  I 
see  that  you  reproach  yourself  because  of  your  relations  to  me; 
my  dear  little  girl,  I have  nothing  to  reproach  you  for,  so  you 
must  not  do  it  yourself.  You  have  never  been  anything  but 
kind  and  sweet  and  loving  to  your  friend,  and  I shall  never 
forget  your  tenderness  and  affection  during  the  short  time  you 
loved  me  — your  charming  youth,  your  gentle  devotion  in  the 
days  of  our  short  happiness. 

“ We  ought  to  have  known,  both  of  us,  that  it  would  be  short. 
I certainly  ought  to  have  understood,  and  if  you  had  reflected 
you  might  have  known  too,  but  do  two  people,  who  are  at- 
tracted by  one  another,  ever  reflect?  Do  you  think  I reproach 
you  because  one  day  you  ceased  to  love  me  and  caused  me  the 
greatest  suffering  in  my  far  from  happy  life  — a twofold  suf- 
fering when  I learnt  simultaneously  that  our  relations  would 
have  consequences  which  you  would  have  to  bear  all  through 
life? 

“ From  your  letter  I see  too  that  those  consequences,  which 
have  probably  been  a much  greater  source  of  despair  to  me 
than  to  you,  in  spite  of  all  you  may  have  experienced  of  worry 
and  bodily  suffering,  have  brought  a deeper  joy  and  happiness 
than  anything  else  in  all  your  life  — that  the  joy  of  being  a 
mother  gives  you  peace,  satisfaction,  and  courage  to  live,  and 
that  with  your  child  in  your  arms  you  think  you  will  have 


JENNY 


249 

strength  to  meet  all  difficulties,  economic  as  well  as  social, 
which  the  future  may  place  in  the  way  of  a young  woman  in 
your  position.  It  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  you  think  to 
read  it.  It  is  to  me  a fresh  proof  that  the  eternal  justice,  which 
I have  never  doubted,  exists.  To  you,  who  made  a mistake 
because  your  heart  was  warm  and  tender  and  thirsting  for  love, 
this  very  mistake,  which  has  caused  you  so  many  agonizing 
hours,  will  in  the  end  bring  you  all  you  have  sought,  in  a 
better,  finer,  and  purer  degree  than  ever  you  dreamt  of,  now 
that  your  heart  is  filled  with  love  for  your  child.  And  it  will 
increase  as  he  grows  and  begins  to  know  his  mother,  to  cling 
to  her,  and  to  return  her  love  with  a stronger,  more  profound 
and  conscious  affection  as  the  years  go  by. 

“ And  to  me,  who  received  your  love,  although  I should  have 
known  that  love  between  us  was  impossible  and  unnatural,  to 
me  these  months  have  brought  indescribable  suffering  and  sor- 
row and  — emptiness.  You  have  no  idea,  Jenny,  how  I miss 
you,  your  youth,  your  beauty,  the  bliss  of  your  love;  and  every 
memory  of  it  all  is  embittered  by  repentance,  an  insistent  ques- 
tioning : How  could  I let  her  do  it  ? How  could  I accept  it  — 

how  believe  in  the  possibility  of  happiness  for  myself  with 
her?  I did  believe  it,  Jenny,  however  mad  it  may  sound,  be- 
cause I felt  young  when  I was  with  you.  Remember  that  I 
forfeited  my  own  youth  when  I was  much  younger  than  you; 
the  happiness  of  work  and  the  happiness  of  love  in  youth  have 
never  been  mine,  and  it  was  all  my  own  fault.  And  this  was 
retribution!  My  dead  youth  came  back  to  life  when  I met 
you;  in  my  heart  I did  not  feel  older  than  you.  Nothing  is 
more  terrible  in  life  than  for  a man  to  be  old  while  his  heart 
is  still  young. 

“ You  write  that  you  wish  me  to  come  some  day  when  the 
boy  has  grown  a little,  to  see  you  and  our  child.  What  a pre- 
posterous thought  — our  child ! Do  you  know  what  constantly 
comes  into  my  mind?  The  old  Joseph  on  the  Italian  altar 


JENNY 


250 

paintings.  You  will  remember  that  he  is  always  standing  in 
the  background,  or  on  one  side,  sadly  and  tenderly  contemplat- 
ing the  Divine  Child  and  its  young  and  beautiful  mother,  who 
are  absorbed  in  each  other  and  do  not  notice  his  presence. 
Don’t  misunderstand  me,  dear  Jenny;  I know  that  the  little 
child  lying  in  your  lap  is  also  flesh  and  blood  of  mine,  but, 
when  I think  of  you  as  a mother,  I cannot  help  feeling  myself 
out  in  the  cold  like  poor  old  Joseph. 

“You  must  not  hesitate  to  accept  my  name  as  my  wife  and 
the  protection  it  would  give  you  and  the  child  any  more  than 
Mary  hesitated  to  submit  herself  to  the  care  of  Joseph.  And 
I do  not  consider  it  quite  right  towards  the  child  to  rob  it  of 
its  father’s  name,  to  which  it  has  a right,  however  much  con- 
fidence you  may  have  in  yourself.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
in  such  a marriage  you  would  remain  as  free  and  independent 
as  before,  and  that  it  could  be  legally  dissolved  whenever  you 
wished.  I beg  of  you  to  think  it  over.  We  might  go  through 
the  ceremony  abroad,  and  a few  months  afterwards  steps  might 
be  taken  to  obtain  a divorce,  if  that  is  your  wish;  you  need 
not  come  back  to  Norway,  nor  even  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  me  at  all. 

“ There  is  not  much  to  tell  about  myself.  I have  two  small 
rooms  in  this  part  of  the  country,  not  far  from  the  place  where 
I was  born  and  lived  till  I was  ten  years  old.  From  my  win- 
dow I can  see  the  tops  of  the  two  big  chestnut  trees  standing  at 
the  entrance  to  the  home  of  my  childhood.  They  look  very 
much  the  same  as  they  did  then.  Up  here  the  evenings  are  be- 
ginning to  be  long  and  light  and  spring  like,  and  their  naked 
brown  branches  stand  outlined  against  the  pale  green  sky, 
where  a few  solitary  stars  glitter  in  the  sharp,  clear  air. 
Evening  after  evening  I sit  by  my  window  staring  in  the  same 
direction,  dreaming  and  recalling  to  memory  my  whole  life. 
How  could  I ever  forget,  Jenny  dear,  that  between  you  and  me 
there  was  a whole  life  almost  twice  as  long  as  yours,  and  more 


JENNY  251 

than  half  of  it  spent  in  incessant  humiliation,  defeat,  and 
sorrow  ? 

“ That  you  think  of  me  without  anger  and  bitterness  is  more 
than  I dared  to  hope  and  expect,  and  to  read  your  joy  between 
every  line  of  your  letter  has  given  me  the  greatest  satisfaction. 
May  God  bless  and  help  you  and  the  child,  and  grant  you  all 
the  happiness  I wish  for  both  of  you. 

“ My  fondest  love  is  yours,  dear  Jenny  — you  who  were  once 
mine. — Your  devoted,  Gert  Gram.” 

VII 

JENNY  remained  with  Mrs.  Schlessinger;  it  was  cheap, 
and  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself.  Spring 
was  in  the  air.  She  walked  on  the  pier  in  the  evenings. 
Heavy  clouds,  bordered  by  the  sun,  with  red  and  burning  gold, 
chased  across  the  immense  open  dome  of  the  sky,  and  were 
reflected  in  the  restless  sea.  The  dark  and  desolate  plain 
turned  light  green  and  the  poplars  reddish  brown  with  young 
shoots.  Along  the  railway  line  violets  and  small  white  and 
yellow  flowers  were  coming  up  in  hundreds,  and  at  last  the 
whole  plain  was  luxuriously  green,  and  a world  of  colour  sprang 
forth  along  the  ditches;  sulphur-tinted  irises  and  big  white 
lilies  were  reflected  in  the  pools  of  the  marsh.  Then  one  day 
the  air  was  permeated  by  a sweet  scent  of  hay,  mixing  with 
the  smell  of  tar  from  the  shore. 

The  hotel  opened,  and  the  small  houses  by  the  pier  were 
filled  with  summer  visitors;  children  swarmed  on  the  white 
beach,  rolling  in  the  sand  and  paddling  in  the  water.  Mothers 
and  nurses  in  national  costumes  of  the  Spreewald  sat  on  the 
grass  with  their  sewing,  looking  after  them.  The  bathing- 
huts  had  been  transported  into  the  sea,  and  young  girls  were 
shouting  and  laughing  in  the  water.  Sailing  yachts  anchored 
by  the  pier,  tourists  came  from  the  town,  in  the  evenings  there 


JENNY 


252 

was  dancing  in  the  hotel,  and  couples  walked  about  in  the 
small  plantation  where  Jenny  used  to  lie  in  the  grass  early  in 
the  spring  listening  to  the  wash  of  the  waves  and  the  rustling 
of  the  wind  in  the  scraggy  tree-tops. 

One  or  two  of  the  ladies  looked  at  her  with  interest  and  com- 
passion when  she  walked  on  the  beach  in  her  black  and  white 
dress.  The  summer  visitors  staying  in  the  village  had  got  to 
know  that  a young  Norwegian  girl  had  had  a child  and  was 
disconsolately  mourning  its  death,  and  some  of  them  found  it 
more  touching  than  scandalous. 

She  much  preferred  walking  out  into  the  country,  where  the 
summer  boarders  never  went.  Once  in  a while  she  went  as  far 
as  the  cemetery,  where  her  boy  was  buried.  She  sat  staring  at 
the  grave,  which  she  had  not  wished  to  have  tended  in  any 
way,  sometimes  laying  on  it  some  wild  flowers  which  she  had 
picked  on  the  way,  but  her  mind  refused  to  associate  the  little 
mound  of  grey  earth  with  her  beloved  little  boy. 

In  her  room  in  the  evenings  she  sat  staring  at  the  lamp  — 
with  needlework  which  she  never  touched.  And  her  thoughts 
were  always  the  same:  she  remembered  the  days  when  she  had 
the  boy  — first  the  faint,  peaceful  joy  while  she  was  in  bed, 
getting  well,  then  when  she  was  sitting  up  and  Mrs.  Schles- 
singer  showed  her  how  to  bath  and  dress  and  handle  him, 
and  when  they  went  to  Warnemiinde  together  to  buy  fine  ma- 
terial, lace,  and  ribbon,  and  how  on  their  return  home  she  cut 
and  sewed,  designed  and  embroidered.  Her  boy  was  to  have 
nice  things,  instead  of  the  common,  ready-made  outfit  she  had 
ordered  from  Berlin.  She  had  also  bought  a ridiculous  garden 
syringe  of  green-painted  tin,  with  pictures  of  a lion  and  a 
tiger,  standing  by  a blue  sea  amid  palms  and  looking  with  awe 
at  the  German  dreadnoughts  steaming  away  towards  the  African 
possessions  of  the  Empire.  She  had  found  it  so  amusing  that 
she  bought  it  for  baby-boy  to  play  with  when  he  should  be  big 
enough  — after  a very  long  time.  He  must  first  learn  to  find 


JENNY 


253 

mother’s  breast,  which  at  present  he  only  blindly  sought  for, 
and  to  discover  his  own  little  fingers,  which  he  could  not  sepa- 
rate when  he  had  clutched  them  together.  By  and  by  he  would 
be  able  to  recognize  his  mother,  to  look  at  the  lamp  and  at 
mother’s  watch  when  she  was  dangling  it  before  his  eyes. 
There  were  so  many  things  baby-boy  would  have  to  learn. 

All  his  things  were  in  a drawer  she  never  opened.  She  knew 
what  every  little  piece  looked  like;  she  could  feel  them  in  the 
palms  of  her  hands,  the  soft  linen  and  the  fluffy  woollen  things 
and  the  unfinished  jacket  of  green  flannel  on  which  she  had 
embroidered  yellow  buttercups  — the  jacket  he  was  to  wear 
when  she  took  him  out. 

She  had  begun  a picture  of  the  beach  with  red  and  blue  chil- 
dren on  the  white  sands.  Some  of  the  compassionate  ladies 
came  to  look  at  it,  trying  to  make  acquaintance  with  her: 
“How  nice!  ” But  she  was  not  pleased  with  the  sketch,  and 
cared  neither  to  finish  it  nor  to  make  a new  one. 

Then  one  day  the  hotel  closed  up  again,  the  sea  was  stormy, 
and  summer  had  gone. 

Gunnar  wrote  from  Italy,  advising  her  to  go  there.  Cesca 
wanted  her  to  go  to  Sweden,  and  her  mother,  who  knew  noth- 
ing, wrote  she  could  not  understand  why  she  stayed  so  long  in 
Germany.  Jenny  was  thinking  of  going  away,  but  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind,  although  a faint  longing  began  to  stir 
in  her. 

She  became  restless  at  going  about  like  that  without  being 
able  to  do  anything.  She  had  to  take  a decision  — even  if 
it  came  only  to  throwing  herself  into  the  sea  one  night  from 
the  pier. 

One  evening  she  took  out  Heggen’s  books  from  their  case. 
Among  them  was  one  with  poetry  — Fxori  della  Poesia  Italiana 
— in  an  edition  for  tourists,  bound  in  leather.  She  turned  the 
leaves  to  see  if  she  had  forgotten  all  her  Italian. 


JENNY 


254 

The  book  fell  open  by  itself  at  Lorenzo  di  Medici’s  carnival 
song,  where  a folded  piece  of  paper  lay  in  Gunnar’s  hand- 
writing : 

“ Dear  Mother, — I may  tell  you  now  that  I have  arrived 
safely  in  Italy  and  am  quite  comfortable,  and  that  ” — the  rest 
of  the  sheet  was  covered  with  words  to  learn.  Beside  the 
verbs  he  had  written  down  the  conjugations,  and  the  margin  all 
along  the  melodramatic  poetry  was  tightly  covered  with  notes: 
Quant’s  bella  giovenezza,  che  se  fugge  tuttavia. 

Even  the  commonest  words  were  written  down.  Gunnar  had 
probably  tried  to  read  the  book  directly  he  came  to  Italy,  be- 
fore he  knew  the  language  at  all.  On  the  first  page  was 
written  “ G.  Heggen,  Firenze,  1903  ” — that  was  before  she 
knew  him. 

She  began  to  read  here  and  there.  It  was  Leopardi’s  “ Ode 
to  Italy,”  which  Gunnar  was  so  enthusiastic  about.  She  read 
it.  The  margin  was  full  of  notes  and  ink-spots. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  sent  her  a message  more  intimate  than 
any  of  his  letters.  Young,  sound,  firm,  and  active,  he  was 
calling  her,  asking  her  to  come  back  to  life  — and  work.  Oh, 
if  she  could  gather  courage  and  begin  work  again!  She 
wanted  to  try  — to  make  her  choice  whether  for  life  or  death; 
she  wanted  to  go  out  there  where  once  she  had  felt  herself  free 
and  strong  — alone  save  for  her  work.  She  longed  for  her 
friends,  the  trusty  comrades  who  never  came  too  near  to  hurt 
one  another,  but  lived  side  by  side,  each  minding  their  own 
business  and  all  sharing  what  they  possessed  in  common:  the 
belief  in  their  ability  and  the  joy  of  their  work.  She  wanted 
to  see  again  the  country  of  mountains,  with  proud,  severe  lines 
and  sunburnished  colours. 

A few  days  later  she  left  for  Berlin,  where  she  stayed  some 
time  visiting  the  galleries,  but,  feeling  tired  and  forlorn,  she 
went  on  the  Munich. 

In  the  Alte  Pinakothek  she  stopped  before  Rembrandt’s 


JENNY 


255 

“ Holy  Family.”  She  did  not  look  at  it  from  a painter’s  point 
of  view;  she  only  looked  at  the  young  peasant  woman  who,  with 
her  garment  still  drawn  aside  from  her  full  bosom,  sat  looking 
at  her  child  sleeping  on  her  lap,  and  holding  his  foot  cares- 
singly in  her  hand.  It  was  an  ugly  little  peasant  boy,  but  in 
splendid  condition;  he  was  sound  asleep  and  such  a darling  all 
the  same.  Joseph  was  looking  at  him  across  the  mother’s 
shoulder,  but  it  was  not  an  old  Joseph,  and  Mary  was  no 
immaterial,  heavenly  bride;  they  were  a strong,  middle-aged 
working  man  and  his  young  wife,  and  the  child  was  the  joy 
and  pride  of  the  two. 

In  the  evening  she  wrote  to  Gert  Gram  a long,  sad  and  tender 
letter  bidding  him  farewell  for  ever. 

On  the  following  day  she  took  a through  ticket  to  Florence; 
after  a sleepless  night  in  the  train  she  found  herself  sitting  at 
the  window  at  daybreak.  Wild  torrents  spurted  down  the 
forest-clad  mountain-sides.  It  grew  lighter  and  lighter,  and 
the  towns  became  more  and  more  Italian  in  character:  rust- 
brown  or  golden-yellow  tiles,  loggias  to  the  houses,  green  shut- 
ters against  reddish  stone  walls,  church  fronts  in  baroque,  stone 
bridges  across  the  rivers,  vineyards  outside  the  towns,  and  grey 
castle  ruins  on  the  hilltops.  At  the  stations  all  the  signs  were 
written  in  German  and  Italian. 

She  stood  in  the  customs  office  looking  at  the  first-  and  sec- 
ond-class passengers  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  and  she  felt 
quite  happy  without  being  able  to  account  for  it.  She  was 
back  again  in  Italy.  The  customs  officer  smiled  at  her  because 
.she  was  so  fair,  and  she  smiled  back;  evidently  he  took  her  for 
the  maid  of  one  or  other  of  the  lady  passengers. 

The  misty  grey  mountains  ridges  on  either  side  had  a bluish 
shade  in  the  crevices,  the  ground  looked  rusty  red,  and  the  sun 
flamed  white  and  hot. 

But  in  Florence  it  was  bitterly  cold  in  the  early  days  of 
November.  Tired  and  frozen,  she  stayed  in  the  city  a fort- 


JENNY 


256 

night  — her  heart  cold  to  all  the  beauty  around  her,  and  mel- 
ancholy and  discouraged  because  it  did  not  warm  her  as  before. 

One  morning  she  went  to  Rome.  The  ground  was  white 
with  frost  all  the  way  down  through  Toscana;  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  the  frosty  mist  lifted  and  the  sun  shone  — and  she  saw 
again  a spot  she  had  never  forgotten:  the  lake  of  Trasimene 
lying  pale  blue,  surrounded  by  the  mountains.  A point  of  land 
projected  into  the  water,  with  towers  and  pinnacles  of  a small 
stone-grey  town,  with  a cypress  avenue  leading  from  the  station. 

She  arrived  at  Rome  in  pouring  rain.  Gunnar  was  on  the 
platform  to  meet  her,  and  he  squeezed  her  hands  as  he  wished 
her  welcome.  He  went  on  talking  and  laughing  all  the  time  as 
they  drove  from  the  station'  to  the  quarters  he  had  engaged  for 
her,  the  rain  splashing  against  the  cab  from  the  grey  sky  and 
from  the  street  paving. 


VIII 

HEGGEN  was  sitting  at  the  outer  side  of  the  marble 
table,  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation;  now  and 
then  he  cast  a glance  at  Jenny,  who  sat  pressed  into 
the  corner,  with  a whisky  and  soda  before  her.  She  was 
chatting  very  merrily  with  a young  Swedish  lady  across  the 
table,  without  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  her  neighbours,  Dr. 
Broager  and  the  little  Danish  artist  Loulou  Schulin,  who  both 
tried  to  draw  her  attention.  Heggen  saw  that  she  had  had  too 
much  to  drink  again.  A company  of  Scandinavians  and  a 
couple  of  Germans  had  met  in  a wine  shop,  and  were  finishing 
the  night  in  the  inmost  corner  of  a somewhat  dingy  café.  They 
were  all  of  them  more  or  less  affected  by  what  they  had  drunk, 
and  very  much  opposed  to  the  request  of  the  landlord  that  they 
should  leave,  as  it  was  past  time  for  locking  up  and  he  would 
be  fined  two  hundred  lire. 


JENNY 


257 

Gunnar  Heggen  was  the  only  one  who  would  have  liked  the 
symposium  to  come  to  an  end;  he  was  the  only  sober  one,  and 
in  a bad  temper. 

Dr.  Broager  was  constantly  applying  his  black  moustache  to 
Jenny’s  hand;  when  she  pulled  it  away  he  tried  to  kiss  her 
bare  arm.  He  had  succeeded  in  placing  his  arm  behind  her 
and  they  were  squeezed  so  tight  in  the  corner  that  it  was 
useless  to  try  and  get  away  from  him.  Her  resistance  was, 
to  tell  the  truth,  somewhat  lame,  and  she  laughed  without  of- 
fence at  his  boldness. 

“ Ugh!  ” said  Loulou,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  “ Plow  can 
you  stand  it?  Don’t  you  think  he  is  disgusting,  Jenny?  ” 

“ Yes,  I do,  but  don’t  you  see  that  he  is  exactly  like  a blue- 
bottle?— it  is  useless  trying  to  drive  him  away.  Ugh!  stop  it, 
doctor!  ” 

“ Ugh ! ” said  Loulou  again.  “ How  can  you  stand  that 
man?  ” 

“ Never  mind.  I can  wash  myself  with  soap  when  I get 
home.” 

Loulou  Schulin  leaned  against  Jenny,  stroking  her  arms. 
“ Now  I will  take  care  of  these  poor,  beautiful  hands.  Look ! ” 
She  lifted  one  of  them  to  be  admired  by  the  company  round  the 
table.  “ Isn’t  it  lovely?  ” and,  loosening  the  green  motor  veil 
from  her  hat,  she  wrapped  it  round  Jenny’s  arms  and  hands. 
“ In  a mosquito  net,  you  see,”  she  said,  thrusting  out  a small 
tongue  swiftly  at  Broager. 

Jenny  sat  an  instant  with  her  arms  and  hands  enveloped  in 
the  green  veil  before  undoing  it  and  putting  on  her  coat  and 
gloves. 

Broager  leaned  back  with  eyes  half  closed,  and  Miss  Schulin 
raised  her  glass:  “Your  health,  Mr.  Heggen.” 

He  pretended  not  to  hear,  but  when  she  repeated  her  words 
he  seized  his  glass:  “Pardon  — I did  not  see” — and,  after 

taking  a sip,  looked  away  again. 


JENNY 


258 

One  or  two  people  in  the  company  smiled.  Heggen  and 
Miss  Winge  lived  next  door  to  each  other  on  the  top  floor  of  a 
house  somewhere  between  Babuino  and  Corso;  intimate  rela- 
tions between  them  seemed  therefore  to  be  a matter  of  course. 
As  to  Miss  Schulin,  she  had  been  married  to  a Norwegian 
author,  but  after  a year  or  so  of  married  bliss  had  left  him  and 
the  child,  gone  out  into  the  world  under  her  maiden  name  as 
“ Miss,”  and  calling  herself  an  artist. 

The  landlord  came  up  once  more  to  the  company,  urgently 
soliciting  their  departure;  the  two  waiters  put  out  the  gas  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  room  and  stood  waiting  by  the  table, 
so  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  but  pay  and  leave  the 
place. 

Heggen  was  one  of  the  last  as  they  came  out  into  the  square. 
By  the  light  of  the  moon  he  saw  Miss  Schulin  taking  Jenny’s 
arm,  both  running  towards  a cab,  which  some  of  the  others  were 
storming.  He  ran  in  the  same  direction  and  heard  Jenny  calling 
out:  “You  know,  the  one  in  Via  Paneperna,”  just  as  she 

jumped  into  the  already  filled  cab  and  fell  into  somebody’s 
lap. 

But  some  ladies  wanted  to  get  out  and  others  to  get  in  — 
people  kept  on  jumping  out  from  one  door  and  in  at  another, 
while  the  driver  sat  motionless  on  his  seat  waiting,  and  the 
horse  slept  with  its  head  drooping  against  the  stone  bridge. 

Jenny  was  in  the  street  again  now,  but  Miss  Schulin  reached 
out  her  hand  — there  was  plenty  of  room. 

“ I’m  sorry  for  the  horse,”  said  Heggen  curtly,  and  Jenny 
started  to  walk  at  his  side  behind  the  cab,  the  last  among  those 
who  had  not  got  room  in  the  vehicle,  which  rolled  on  ahead. 

“ You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  want  to  be  with  these  people 
any  longer  — to  walk  as  far  as  Paneperna  for  that?”  said 
Heggen. 

“ We  might  meet  an  empty  cab  on  the  way.” 


JENNY  259 

“ How  can  you  be  bothered  with  them?  — they  are  all  drunk,” 
he  added. 

Jenny  laughed  in  a languid  way. 

“ So  am  I,  I suppose.” 

Heggen  did  not  answer.  They  had  reached  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna  when  she  stopped: 

“ You  are  not  coming  with  us,  then,  Gunnar?  ” 

“ Yes,  if  you  absolutely  insist  on  going  on  — otherwise  not.” 
“ You  need  not  come  for  my  sake.  I can  get  home  all  right, 
you  know.” 

“If  you  go,  I go  — I am  not  going  to  let  you  walk  about 
alone  with  those  people  in  that  state.” 

She  laughed  — the  same  limp,  indifferent  laugh. 

“ You  will  be  too  tired  to  sit  to  me  tomorrow.” 

“ Oh,  I shall  be  able  to  sit  all  right.” 

“ You  won’t;  and  anyhow,  I shan’t  be  able  to  work  properly 
if  I have  to  walk  about  all  night.” 

Jenny  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  started  to  walk  in  the 
direction  of  Babuino  — the  opposite  way  to  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

T wo  policemen  passed  them ; otherwise  there  was  not  a living 
soul  to  be  seen.  The  fountain  was  playing  in  front  of  the 
Strada  di  Spagna,  lying  white  with  moonlight  and  bordered  by 
black  and  silver  glittering  evergreen  shrubs. 

Suddenly  Jenny  spoke  in  a hard  and  scornful  voice: 

“ I know  you  mean  it  kindly,  Gunnar.  It  is  good  of  you  to 
try  and  take  care  of  me,  but  it  is  not  worth  while.” 

He  walked  on  in  silence. 

“ No,  not  if  you  have  no  will  of  your  own,”  he  said  after  a 
while. 

“ Will  ” — imitating  him. 

“ Yes;  I said  will.” 

Her  breath  came  quick  and  sharp,  as  if  she  wanted  to  answer, 


26o 


JENNY 


but  she  checked  herself.  She  was  suddenly  filled  with  disgust 
— she  knew  that  she  was  half  drunk,  but  she  would  not  ac- 
centuate it  by  beginning  to  shout,  moan,  and  explain  — perhaps 
cry,  before  Gunnar.  She  set  her  teeth. 

They  reached  their  own  entrance.  Heggen  opened  the  door 
and  struck  a match  to  light  her  up  the  endless  flight  of  dark 
stone  steps.  Their  two  small  rooms  were  on  the  half-landing 
at  the  end  of  the  stairs;  a small  passage  outside  their  doors 
ended  in  a marble  staircase  leading  to  the  flat  roof  of  the 
house. 

At  her  door  she  shook  hands  with  him,  saying  in  a low 
voice: 

“Good-night,  Gunnar  — thanks  for  tonight.” 

“ Thank  you.  Sleep  well.” 

“ Same  to  you.” 

Gunnar  opened  the  window  in  his  room.  The  moon  shone 
on  an  ochre-yellow  wall  opposite,  with  closed  shutters  and 
black  iron  balconies.  Behind  it  rose  Pincio,  with  sharply  out- 
lined dark  masses  of  foliage  against  the  blue  moonlit  sky. 
Below  him  were  old  moss-covered  roofs,  and  where  the  dark 
shadow  of  the  house  ended  some  washing  was  hung  out  to  dry 
on  a terrace  farther  down.  He  was  leaning  on  the  window- 
sill, disgusted  and  sad.  He  was  not  very  particular  in  general, 
but  to  see  Jenny  in  such  a state.  Ugh!  And  it  was  more  or 
less  his  own  fault;  she  had  been  so  melancholy  the  first  months 
of  her  return  — like  a wounded  bird  — and  to  cheer  her  up  a 
little  he  had  persuaded  her  to  join  the  party,  thinking  of  course 
that  he  and  she  would  amuse  themselves  by  watching  the  others 
only,  never  for  a moment  suspecting  that  it  would  have  such  an 
effect  on  her.  He  heard  her  come  out  from  her  room  and  go 
on  to  the  roof.  He  hesitated  a moment,  then  followed  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  only  chair,  behind  the  little  corrugated- 
iron  summer-house.  The  pigeons  cooed  sleepily  in  the  dovecot 
above. 


JENNY 


261 

“Why  have  you  not  gone  to  bed?  You  will  be  cold  up 
here.”  He  fetched  her  shawl  from  the  summer-house  and 
handed  it  to  her,  sitting  down  between  the  flower-pots  on  the 
top  of  the  wall.  They  sat  quietly  staring  at  the  city  and  the 
church  domes  that  seemed  floating  in  the  moonlit  mist.  The 
outlines  of  distant  hills  were  completely  obliterated. 

Jenny  was  smoking.  Gunnar  lit  a cigarette. 

“ I can  hardly  stand  anything  now,  it  seems  — in  the  way 
of  drink,  I mean.  It  affects  me  at  once,”  she  said  apologeti- 
cally. 

He  understood  that  she  was  quite  herself  again. 

“ I think  you  might  leave  it  off  altogether  for  a time,  and 
not  smoke  — at  least  not  so  much.  You  know  you  have  com- 
plained of  your  heart.” 

She  did  not  answer. 

“ I know  that  you  agree  with  me  about  those  people,  and  I 
cannot  think  how  you  could  condescend  to  associate  with  them 
— in  the  way  you  did.” 

“ One  is  sometimes  in  need  of  — well,  of  a narcotic,”  she 
said  quietly.  “ And  as  to  condescending  . . .”  He  looked 
into  her  white  face;  her  fair  fluffy  hair  shone  in  the  moonlight. 
“ Sometimes  I think  it  does  not  matter,  though  now  — at  this 
moment  — I feel  ashamed,  but  then  I am  extraordinarily  sober 
just  now,  you  see,”  she  said,  smiling.  “ I am  not  always,  al- 
though I have  not  taken  anything,  and  in  those  moments  I feel 
ready  for  any  kind  of  revels.” 

“ It  is  dangerous,  Jenny,”  he  said,  and  again  after  a pause: 
“ I think  it  was  disgusting  tonight  — I cannot  call  it  anything 
else.  I have  seen  something  of  life;  I know  what  it  leads  to. 
I would  not  like  to  see  you  come  down  and  end  as  something 
like  Loulou.” 

“ You  can  be  quite  easy  in  your  mind  about  me,  Gunnar.  I 
am  not  going  to  end  that  way.  I don’t  really  like  it,  and  I 
know  where  to  stop.” 


262 


JENNY 


He  sat  looking  at  her. 

“ I know  what  you  mean,”  he  said  at  last.  “ Other  women 
have  thought  as  you,  but  when  one  has  been  gliding  downward 
for  a time  one  ceases  to  care  about  where  to  stop,  as  you  call 
it.”  Stepping  down  from  the  wall,  he  went  towards  her  and 
took  her  hand: 

“ Jenny,  you  will  stop  now,  will  you  not?  ” 

She  rose,  smiling: 

“For  the  present,  anyway.  I think  I am  cured  for  a long 
time  of  that  sort  of  thing.”  She  shook  his  hand  firmly: 
“ Good-night;  I’ll  sit  for  you  in  the  morning,”  she  said,  going 
down  the  stairs. 

“ All  right,  thanks.” 

He  remained  on  the  roof  for  some  time  smoking,  shivering 
a little,  and  thinking,  before  going  down  to  his  room. 

IX 

NEXT  day  she  sat  to  him  after  lunch  until  it  grew 
dark;  in  the  rests,  they  exchanged  some  insignificant 
words  while  he  went  on  painting  the  background  or 
washed  his  brushes. 

“ There,”  he  said,  putting  down  the  palette  and  tidying  up 
his  paint-box.  “ That  will  do  for  today.” 

She  came  to  look  at  the  picture. 

“ The  black  is  good,  don’t  you  think  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  she  said.  “ I think  it  is  very  effective.” 

He  looked  at  his  watch: 

“ It  is  almost  time  to  go  out  and  get  something  to  eat  — shall 
we  dine  together?  ” 

“ All  right.  Will  you  wait  for  me  while  I put  on  my 
things?  ” 

A moment  later  when  he  knocked  at  her  door  she  was  ready, 
standing  before  the  glass  to  fasten  her  hat. 


JENNY 


263 

How  good  looking  she  was,  he  thought,  when  she  turned 
round.  Slim  and  fair  in  her  tight-fitting  steel-grey  dress,  she 
looked  very  ladylike  — discreet,  cold,  and  stylish.  What  he 
had  thought  of  her  yesterday  seemed  quite  impossible  today. 

“ Did  you  not  promise  to  go  to  Miss  Schulin  this  afternoon 
to  see  her  paintings  ? ” 

“ Yes,  but  I am  not  going.”  She  blushed.  “ Honestly  I 
don’t  care  to  encourage  an  acquaintance  with  her,  and  I suppose 
there  is  not  much  in  her  paintings  either.” 

“ I should  not  think  so.  I cannot  understand  your  putting 
up  with  her  advances  last  night.  Personally,  I would  rather 
do  anything  — eat  a plateful  of  live  worms.” 

Jenny  smiled,  and  said  seriously: 

“ Poor  thing,  I daresay  she  is  not  happy  at  all.” 

“Pooh!  not  happy.  I met  her  in  Paris  in  1905.  I don’t 
think  she  is  perverse  by  nature  — only  stupid  and  full  of 
vanity.  It  was  all  put  on.  If  it  were  the  fashion  now  to  be 
virtuous  she  would  sit  up  darning  children’s  stockings,  and 
would  have  been  the  best  of  housewives.  Possibly  painting 
roses  with  dewdrops  on  as  a recreation.  But  once  she  got  away 
from  her  moorings  she  wanted  to  see  life  — free  as  an  artist,  she 
thought  she  ought  to  get  herself  a lover  for  the  sake  of  her  self- 
respect.  But  unfortunately  she  got  hold  of  a duffer  who  was 
old-fashioned  enough  to  want  her  to  marry  him  in  the  old  non- 
modern way  when  things  had  gone  wrong,  and  expected  her  to 
look  after  the  child  and  the  house.” 

“ It  may  be  Paulsen’s  fault  that  she  ran  away  — you  never 
know.” 

“ Of  course  it  was  his  fault.  He  was  of  the  old  school,  want- 
ing happiness  in  his  home,  and  he  gave  her  probably  too  little 
love  and  still  less  cudgelling.” 

Jenny  smiled  sadly: 

“ I know,  Gunnar,  that  you  believe  life’s  difficulties  are  easily 
solved.” 


264  JENNY 

Heggen  sat  down  astride  on  a chair  with  his  arms  on  the 
back. 

“ There  is  so  much  of  life  that  we  don’t  know  anything  about, 
that  what  we  know  is  easy  enough  to  manage.  Have  to  make 
your  aims  and  dreams  accordingly,  and  tackle  the  unexpected 
as  best  you  can.” 

Jenny  sat  down  in  the  sofa,  resting  her  head  in  her  hands: 

“ I can  no  longer  feel  that  there  is  anything  in  life  I am  so 
sure  about  that  I could  make  it  a foundation  for  my  judgment 
or  the  aim  of  my  exertions,”  she  said  placidly. 

“ I don’t  think  you  mean  it.” 

She  only  smiled. 

“ Not  always,”  said  Gunnar. 

“ I suppose  there  is  nobody  who  means  the  same  thing  al- 
ways.” 

“ Yes,  always  when  one  is  sober.  You  were  right  last  night 
in  saying  that  sometimes  one  isn’t  sober  even  if  one  hasn’t 
been  drinking.” 

“ At  present  — when  I am  sober  once  in  a while,  I ” 

She  broke  off  and  remained  silent. 

“ You  know  what  I think  about  life,  and  I know  you  have 
always  thought  the  same.  What  happens  to  you  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  result  of  your  own  will.  As  a rule,  you  are  the 
maker  of  your  own  fate.  Now  and  then  there  are  circumstances 
which  you  cannot  master,  but  it  is  a colossal  exaggeration  to  say 
it  happens  often.” 

“ God  knows  I did  not  will  my  fate,  Gunnar.  Yet  I have 
willed  for  many  years  and  lived  accordingly,  too.” 

Both  were  quiet  a moment. 

“ One  day,”  she  said  slowly,  “ I changed  my  course  an  in- 
stant. I found  it  so  severe  and  hard  to  live  the  life  I consid- 
ered the  most  worthy  — so  lonely,  you  see.  I left  the  road  for 
a bit,  wanting  to  be  young  and  to  play,  and  thus  came  into  a 
current  that  carried  me  away,  ending  in  something  I 


JENNY 


265 

never  for  a second  had  thought  could  possibly  happen  to  me.’” 
After  a moment’s  silence  Heggen  said: 

“ Rossetti  says  — and  you  know  he  is  a much  better  poet  than 
painter : 

“‘Was  that  the  landmark?  What  — the  foolish  well 
Whose  wave,  low  down,  I did  not  stoop  to  drink 
But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its  brink 
In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell. 

( And  mine  own  image,  had  I noted  well ! ) — 

Was  that  my  point  of  turning?  — I had  thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  raise  unsought, 

As  altarstone  or  ensigned  citadel. 

But  lo!  The  path  is  missed,  I must  go  back, 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I reach  the  spring 
Which  once  I stained,  which  since  may  have  grown  black. 

Yet  though  no  light  be  left  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I turn,  I’ll  thank  God,  hastening. 

That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track.’  ” 

Jenny  said  nothing  — and  Gunnar  repeated:  “That  the 

same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track.” 

“ Do  you  think  it  is  easy  to  find  the  track  to  the  goal  again?  ” 
asked  Jenny. 

“ No,  but  ought  one  not  to  try?  ” he  said,  almost  in  a childish 
way. 

“ But  what  goal  did  I have  at  all?  ” she  said,  with  sudden 
vehemence.  “ I wanted  to  live  in  such  a way  that  I need  never 
be  ashamed  of  myself  either  as  a woman  or  as  an  artist.  Never 
to  do  a thing  I did  not  think  right  myself.  I wanted  to  be 
upright,  firm,  and  good,  and  never  to  have  any  one  else’s  sorrow 
on  my  conscience.  And  what  was  the  origin  of  the  wrong  — 
the  cause  of  it  all?  It  was  that  I yearned  for  love  without 
there  being  any  particular  man  whose  love  I wanted.  Was 
there  anything  strange  in  it,  or  that  I wanted  to  believe  that 
Helge,  when  he  came,  was  the  one  I had  been  longing  for  — 


266 


JENNY 


wanting  it  so  much  that  at  last  I really  believed  it?  That  was 
the  beginning  of  what  led  to  the  rest.  Gunnar,  I did  believe 
that  I could  make  them  happy  — and  yet  I did  only  harm.” 

She  had  risen  and  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor. 

“ Do  you  believe  that  the  well  you  speak  of  will  ever  be  pure 
and  clear  again  to  one  who  knows  she  has  muddied  it  herself? 
Do  you  think  it  is  easier  for  me  to  resign  now?  I longed  for 
the  same  that  all  girls  long  for,  and  I long  for  it  now,  but  I 
know  that  I have  now  a past  which  makes  it  impossible  for  me 
to  accept  the  only  happiness  I care  for.  Pure,  unspoilt,  and 
sound  it  should  be  — but  none  of  these  conditions  can  I ever 
fulfil  — not  now.  My  experiences  of  these  two  last  years  are 
what  I must  be  satisfied  to  call  my  life  — and  for  the  rest  of 
it  I shall  just  have  to  go  on  longing  for  the  impossible.” 

“ Jenny,”  said  Gunnar,  “ I am  sure  I am  right  in  saying 
again  that  it  depends  on  yourself  if  these  memories  are  going 
to  spoil  your  life,  or  if  you  will  consider  them  a lesson,  however 
hard  it  may  be,  and  still  believe  that  the  aim  you  once  set  for 
yourself  is  the  only  right  one  for  you.” 

“ But  can  you  not  see  it  is  impossible?  It  has  sunk  too  deep; 
it  has  eaten  into  me  like  a corrosive  acid,  and  I feel  that  what 
was  once  my  inmost  self  is  crumbling  to  pieces.  Yet  I don’t 
want  it  — I don’t  want  it.  Sometimes  I am  inclined  to  — I 
don’t  know  really  what  — to  stop  all  the  thoughts  at  once. 
Either  to  die  — or  to  live  a mad,  awful  life  — drown  in  a 
misery  still  greater  than  the  present  one.  To  go  dovrn  in  the 
mud  so  deep  and  so  thoroughly  that  nothing  but  the  end  will 
come  of  it.  Or  ” — she  spoke  low,  with  a wild,  stifled  voice  — 
“ to  throw  myself  under  a train  — to  know  in  the  last  second 
that  now  — just  now  — my  whole  body,  nerves,  heart,  and 
brain  will  be  made  into  one  single  shivering  bloodstained  heap.” 
“ Jenny,”  he  cried,  white  in  the  face,  “ I cannot  bear  to  hear 
you  speak  like  this!  ” 

“ I am  hysterical,”  she  said  soothingly,  but  she  went  to  the 


JENNY  267 

corner  where  her  canvases  stood  and  almost  flung  them  against 
the  wall,  with  the  painting  turned  out: 

“ Is  it  worth  living  to  go  about  making  things  like  those? 
Smearing  oil  paint  on  canvas?  You  can  see  for  yourself  that 
it  is  nothing  now  but  a mess  of  paint.  Yet  you  saw  how  I 
worked  the  first  months  — like  a slave.  Good  God ! I cannot 
even  paint  any  more.” 

Heggen  looked  at  the  pictures.  He  felt  he  had  a firm  ground 
to  stand  upon  again. 

“ I should  really  like  to  have  your  frank  opinion  on  — that 
piggish  stuff,”  she  said  provokingly. 

“ I must  admit  that  they  are  not  particularly  good.”  He 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets  looking  at  them. 
“ But  that  happens  to  every  one  of  us  — I mean  that  there  are 
certain  times  when  you  cannot  produce  anything,  and  you  ought 
to  know  that  it  is  only  for  a time.  I don’t  think  one  can  lose 
one’s  talent  even  if  one  has  been  ever  so  unhappy.  You  have 
left  off  painting  for  such  a long  time,  besides;  you  will  have 
to  work  it  up  again  — to  master  the  means  of  action,  so  to  say. 
Take  life  study,  for  instance  — I am  sure  it  is  three  years  since 
you  drew  a live  model.  One  cannot  neglect  those  things  without 
being  punished  for  it.  I know  from  my  own  experience.” 

He  went  to  a shelf  and  searched  among  Jenny’s  sketch- 
books : 

“ You  ought  to  remember  how  much  you  improved  in  Paris 
— let  me  show  you.” 

“ No,  no,  not  that  one,”  said  Jenny,  reaching  her  hand  for  it. 

Heggen  stood  with  the  book  in  his  hand,  looking  amazed  at 
her.  She  turned  her  face  away: 

“ I don’t  mind  if  you  look  at  it  — I tried  to  draw  the  boy 
one  day.” 

Heggen  turned  the  leaves  slowly.  Jenny  was  sitting  in  the 
sofa  again.  He  looked  at  the  pencil  sketches  of  the  sleeping 
infant  for  a moment,  then  put  the  book  carefully  away. 


268 


JENNY 


“ It  was  a great  pity  that  you  lost  your  little  boy,”  he  said 
gently. 

“ Yes.  If  he  had  lived,  all  the  rest  would  not  have  mattered. 
You  speak  about  will,  but  when  one’s  will  cannot  keep  one’s 
child  alive,  what  is  the  good  of  it  ? I don’t  care  to  try  to  make 
anything  of  my  life  now,  because  it  seemed  to  me  the  only 
thing  I was  good  for  and  cared  about  was  to  be  a mother  to 
my  little  boy.  Oh,  I could  have  loved  him!  I suppose  I am 
an  egoist  at  heart,  for  whenever  I tried  to  love  the  others,  my  own 
self  rose  like  a wall  between  us.  But  the  boy  wras  mine  alone. 
I could  have  worked  if  he  had  been  spared  to  me.  I could 
have  worked  hard. 

“ I had  made  so  many  plans.  On  the  w7ay  down  here  they 
all  came  back  to  my  mind.  I had  decided  to  live  in  Bavaria 
with  him  in  the  summer,  because  I was  afraid  the  sea  air  w?ould 
be  too  strong  for  him.  He  was  going  to  lie  in  his  pram  under 
the  apple  trees  while  I painted.  There  is  not  a place  in  the 
world  I could  go  to  where  I have  not  been  in  my  dreams  with 
the  boy.  There  is  nothing  good  or  beautiful  in  all  the  world 
that  I did  not  think,  while  I had  him,  he  should  learn  and 
see.  I have  not  a thing  that  was  not  his  too.  I used  to  wrrap 
him  up  in  the  red  rug  I have.  The  black  dress  you  are  paint- 
ing me  in  was  made  in  Warnemunde  when  I was  out  of  bed 
again,  and  I had  it  cut  so  that  it  w7ould  be  easy  to  nurse  him. 

“ I cannot  work  because  I am  so  full  of  him  — the  longing 
for  him  paralyses  me.  In  the  night  I cuddle  the  pillow  in  my 
arms  and  sob  for  my  baby-boy.  I call  him  and  talk  to  him 
when  I am  alone.  I should  have  painted  him,  to  have  a picture 
of  him  at  every  age.  He  would  have  been  a year  old  now, 
would  have  had  teeth  and  been  able  to  take  hold  of  things,  to 
stand  up,  and  perhaps  to  walk  a little.  Every  month,  ever}7 
day  I think  of  him  — how  he  would  have  grown  and  what  he 
would  be  like.  When  I see  a woman  with  a bambino  on  her 


JENNY  269 

arm,  or  the  children  in  the  street,  I always  think  of  him  and 
how  he  would  look  at  their  age.” 

She  stopped  talking  for  a moment. 

“ I did  not  think  you  felt  it  like  that,  Jenny,”  said  Heggen 
gently.  “It  was  sad  for  you,  of  course  — I quite  understood 
that  — but  I thought,  on  the  whole,  it  was  better  he  was  taken. 
If  I had  known  you  were  so  distressed  about  it,  I should  have 
come  to  see  you.” 

She  did  not  answer,  but  went  on  in  the  same  strain : “ And 

he  died  — such  a tiny,  tiny  little  thing.  It  is  only  selfishness 
on  my  part  to  grudge  him  death  before  he  had  begun  to  feel 
and  to  understand.  He  could  only  look  at  the  light  and  cry 
when  he  was  hungry  or  wanted  to  be  changed ; he  did  not  know 
me  even  — not  really,  anyhow.  Some  vague  glimpses  of  reason 
had  possibly  begun  to  awaken  in  his  little  head,  but,  think  of 
it,  he  never  knew  that  I was  his  mother. 

“ Never  a name  had  he,  poor  darling,  only  mother’s  baby- 
boy,  and  I have  nothing  to  remember  him  by,  except  just  ma- 
terial things.” 

She  lifted  her  hands  as  if  holding  the  child  to  her  heart, 
then  let  them  fall  empty  and  lifeless  on  the  table. 

“ I remember  so  distinctly  my  impression  when  I first  touched 
him,  felt  his  skin  against  mine.  It  was  so  soft,  a little  damp  — 
the  air  had  scarcely  touched  it  yet,  you  see.  People  think  a 
newborn  child  is  not  nice  to  feel,  and  perhaps  it  is  so  when  it 
is  not  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  And  his  eyes  — they  were 
no  special  colour,  only  dark,  but  I think  they  would  have  been 
grey-blue.  A baby’s  eyes  are  so  strange  — almost  mysterious. 
And  his  tiny  head  was  so  pretty,  when  he  was  feeding  and 
pressing  his  little  nose  against  me.  I could  see  the  pulse  beat- 
ing and  the  thin,  downy  hair;  he  had  quite  a lot  of  it  — and 
dark  — when  he  was  born. 

“ Oh,  that  little  body  of  his!  I can  never  think  of  anything 


JENNY 


270 

else  — I can  feel  it  lying  in  my  hands.  He  was  so  round  and 
fat,  and  every  bit  of  him  was  so  pretty  — my  own  sweet  little 
boy! 

“ But  he  died!  I was  looking  forward  so  much  to  all  that 
was  going  to  happen  that  it  seems  to  me  now  I did  not  pay 
enough  attention  to  things  when  I had  him,  or  kissed  him  or 
looked  at  him  enough,  though  I did  nothing  else  in  those  weeks. 

“ When  he  was  gone  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  yearning 
for  him.  You  cannot  understand  what  I felt.  My  whole  body 
ached  with  it.  I fell  ill,  and  the  fever  and  the  pain  seemed  to 
be  my  longing  materialized.  I missed  him  from  my  arms,  be- 
tween my  hands,  and  at  my  cheek.  Once  or  twice  in  the  last 
week  of  his  life  he  clutched  my  finger  when  I put  it  in  his  hand. 
Once  he  had  somehow  got  hold  of  a little  of  my  hair  — oh,  the 
sweet,  sweet  little  hands.  . . .” 

She  lay  prostrate  over  the  table,  sobbing  violently,  her  whole 
form  shivering. 

Gunnar  had  got  up  and  stood  hesitating,  emotion  rising  in 
his  throat.  Then  he  went  to  her  and,  bending  down  over  her 
head,  he  touched  her  hair  lightly  with  a shy,  gentle  kiss. 

She  continued  crying,  in  the  same  position,  for  a little  while. 
At  last  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  washstand  to  bathe  her 
face. 

“ Oh,  how  I miss  him,”  she  repeated,  and  he  could  not  find 
anything  to  say  but  “ Jenny,  if  I had  known  that  you  felt  it  so 
much.” 

She  came  back  to  where  he  was  and,  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  said: 

“ Gunnar,  you  must  not  pay  any  attention  to  what  I said  a 
while  ago.  Sometimes  I am  not  quite  myself,  but  you  will 
understand  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  boy,  if  for  no  other  reason, 
I am  not  going  to  throw  myself  entirely  into  a life  of  dissipa- 
tion. At  heart  I really  want  to  make  the  best  I can  of  my  life 


JENNY 


271 

— you  know  that.  I mean  to  try  and  work  again,  even  if  the 
result  is  poor  in  the  beginning.  I have  always  the  comfort  of 
knowing  that  one  need  not  live  longer  than  one  cares  to.” 

She  put  on  her  hat  again,  finding  a veil  for  her  tear-stained 
face: 

“ Let  us  go  and  have  something  to  eat  — you  must  be  starving 
by  this  time  — it  is  very  late.” 

Gunnar  Heggen  blushed  all  over  his  face.  Now  she  men- 
tioned it,  he  felt  awfully  hungry,  and  was  ashamed  of  himself 
for  admitting  it  at  such  a moment  as  this.  He  dried  the  tears 
from  his  wet,  hot  cheeks  and  took  his  hat  from  the  table. 

X 

BY  tacit  agreement  they  passed  the  restaurant  where  they 
usually  had  their  meals  and  where  there  were  always  a 
number  of  their  countrymen,  and,  continuing  their  way 
in  the  twilight  towards  the  Tiber,  they  crossed  the  bridge  into 
the  old  Borgo  quarters.  In  a corner  by  the  Piazza  San  Pietro 
there  was  a small  trattoria  where  they  had  dined  after  going  to 
the  Vatican,  and  they  went  there. 

They  ate  in  silence.  When  she  had  finished  Jenny  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  sat  sipping  her  claret  and  rubbing  her  fingers 
with  the  fragrant  tangerine  peel.  Heggen  smoked,  staring  in 
front  of  him.  They  were  almost  alone  in  the  place. 

“ Would  you  like  to  read  a letter  I got  from  Cesca  the  other 
day?  ” asked  Jenny  suddenly. 

“ Yes.  I saw  there  was  a letter  for  you  from  her  — from 
Stockholm,  is  it  not?  ” 

“Yes;  they  are  back  there  and  going  to  stay  the  winter.” 
Jenny  took  the  letter  out  of  her  bag  and  handed  it  to  him. 

“Dear,  Sweet  Jenny  Mine, — You  must  not  be  angry 


JENNY 


272 

with  me  for  not  answering  your  last  letter  before.  Every  day 
I meant  to  write,  but  it  never  came  off.  I am  so  pleased  that 
you  are  back  in  Rome  and  are  working,  and  have  Gunnar  to  be 
with. 

“ We  are  back  in  Stockholm  living  in  the  old  place.  It  was 
quite  impossible  to  stay  in  the  cottage  when  it  got  cold;  it  was 
so  draughty  that  we  could  only  get  warm  in  the  kitchen.  We 
would  buy  it  if  we  could  afford  it,  but  it  would  cost  too  much; 
it  wants  so  much  done  to  it.  The  garret  would  have  to  be 
made  into  a studio  for  Lennart,  stoves  would  be  wanted,  and 
lots  of  other  things  — but  we  have  rented  it  for  next  summer, 
and  I am  so  happy  about  it,  for  there  is  no  place  in  the  world 
I love  more.  You  cannot  imagine  anything  more  beautiful 
than  the  west  coast ; it  is  so  bleak  and  poor  and  weather-worn  — 
the  grey  cliffs  with  scraggy  copse  in  the  crevices,  the  woodbine, 
the  poor  little  cottages,  the  sea,  and  the  wonderful  sky.  I have 
made  some  pictures  out  there  and  people  say  they  are  good,  and 
Lennart  and  I have  enjoyed  it  so  much.  We  are  always  friends 
now,  and  when  he  thinks  I am  good,  he  kisses  me  and  calls  me 
a little  mermaid  and  all  kinds  of  nice  names,  and  I suppose  I 
shall  grow  very  fond  of  him  in  time.  We  are  back  in  town 
again  and  our  journey  to  Paris  will  not  come  off  this  time,  but 
I don’t  mind  a bit.  It  seems  almost  heartless  of  me  to  write 
about  it  to  you,  for  you  are  so  much  better  than  I,  and  it  was 
so  dreadfully  sad  that  you  should  lose  your  little  boy  — and 
I don’t  think  I really  deserve  to  be  so  happy  and  get  what  I 
have  wished  for  more  than  anything  — but  I am  going  to  have 
a baby.  I have  only  five  months  to  wait.  I could  scarcely 
believe  it  at  first,  but  now  it  is  certain  enough.  I tried  to  hide 
it  from  Lennart  as  long  as  possible  — you  see,  I was  so  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  deceived  him  twice,  and  I was  afraid  of 
being  mistaken.  When  he  began  to  suspect  it  I denied  it  first, 
but  I had  to  confess  to  it  later.  I cannot  realize  that  I am  to 
have  a little  boy  — Lennart  says  he  would  rather  have  another 


JENNY 


^73 

little  Cesca,  but  I think  he  says  it  only  to  console  me  before- 
hand in  case  it  is,  for  I am  sure  in  his  heart  he  wants  a boy. 
However,  if  it  is  a girl,  we  shall  be  just  as  fond  of  her  — and 
once  we  have  got  one  child  we  might  get  some  more. 

“ I am  so  happy  that  I don’t  mind  where  we  are,  and  I don’t 
long  for  Paris.  Fancy  Mrs.  L.  asking  me  if  I was  not  angry 
because  the  baby  spoilt  my  journey  abroad  — can  you  under- 
stand it  from  a mother  of  two  of  the  handsomest  boys  in  the 
world?  But  they  are  not  taken  the  slightest  notice  of,  except 
when  they  are  with  us,  and  Lennart  says  she  would  willingly 
make  us  a present  of  them.  If  I could  afford  it  I would  take 
them,  so  that  baby  would  have  two  darling  big  brothers  to  play 
with  when  he  comes.  It  will  be  such  fun  to  show  them  their 
little  cousin  — they  call  me  auntie,  you  see.  I think  it  is  nice. 
But  I must  close  now.  Do  you  know  I am  very  pleased  also, 
because  Lennart  cannot  be  jealous  now  — can  he?  and  I don’t 
think  he  ever  will  be  any  more,  for  he  knows  quite  well  that  I 
have  never  been  really  fond  of  anybody  but  him. 

“ Do  you  think  it  unkind  of  me  to  write  so  much  about  this 
to  you  and  that  I am  so  happy?  I know  you  don’t  grudge  me 
my  luck. 

“ Remember  me  kindly  to  all  my  friends  — to  Gunnar  first 
and  foremost.  You  may  tell  him  what  I have  written  if  you 
like.  Every  good  wish  to  yourself  and  welcome  to  us  next 
summer. — Much  love  from  your  sincere  and  devoted  little 
friend,  Cesca. 

“ P.S. — I must  add  something : If  it  is  a girl  she  is  going 

to  be  called  Jenny.  I don’t  mind  what  Lennart  says.  He 
sends  his  regards  to  you,  by  the  way.” 

Gunnar  handed  the  letter  back  to  Jenny,  who  put  it  in  her 
pocket. 

“ I am  so  pleased,”  she  said  gently.  “ I am  glad  there  are 


JENNY 


274 

some  people  who  are  happy.  That  feeling  is  something  still 
left  of  my  old  self  — even  if  there  is  nothing  else.” 

Instead  of  going  back  to  the  city,  they  crossed  the  Piazza, 
walking  in  the  direction  of  the  church. 

The  shadows  fell  coal  black  on  to  the  square  in  the  moon- 
light. White  light  and  night-black  darkness  played  about 
ghostlike  in  one  of  the  arcades.  The  other  lay  in  complete 
obscurity  but  for  the  row  of  statues  on  top.  The  front  of  the 
church  was  in  shadow,  but  here  and  there  the  dome  glittered 
like  water.  The  two  fountains  sent  their  white  jets  sparkling 
and  foaming  towards  the  moon-blue  sky.  The  water  rose 
whirling  in  the  air,  splashing  down  again  to  the  porphyry 
shelves  to  drop  and  trickle  back  into  the  basin. 

Gunnar  and  Jenny  walked  slowly  in  the  shade  of  the  arcade 
towards  the  church. 

“ Jenny,”  he  said  all  of  a sudden,  in  a perfectly  cool  and 
everyday  voice,  “will  you  marry  me?” 

“ No,”  she  answered  after  a pause,  in  a similar  tone. 

“ I mean  it.” 

“ Yes,  but  surely  you  understand  that  I don’t  want  to.” 

“ I don’t  see  why  not.  If  I understood  you  rightly,  you  don’t 
value  your  life  very  highly  at  present,  and  you  entertain  thoughts 
of  suicide  occasionally.  As  you  feel  so  inconsolable  in  any 
case,  why  should  you  not  marry  me?  I think  you  might  try.” 
Jenny  shook  her  head:  “ Thank  you,  Gunnar  — but  I think 

it  would  be  taxing  your  friendship  too  heavily.”  She  spoke 
in  earnest.  “ In  the  first  place,  you  ought  to  understand  that 
I cannot  accept  it,  and  in  the  second  that,  if  you  could  make 
me  accept  you  as  a last  resource,  it  would  not  be  worth  your 
troubling  to  reach  out  one  of  your  little  fingers  to  save  me.” 
“ It  is  not  friendship.”  He  hesitated  a little.  “ The  truth 
is  that  I have  got  fond  of  you.  It  is  not  to  save  you  — although 
I would  do  anything  to  help  you,  of  course  — but  because  I 


JENNY 


275 

realize  now  that  if  anything  happened  to  you  I don’t  know  what 
I should  do.  I dare  not  think  of  it.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  I would  not  gladly  do  for  you,  because  you  are  very  dear 
to  me.” 

“ Oh,  Gunnar,  don’t!  ” She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  al- 
most in  fear. 

“ I know  quite  well  that  you  are  not  in  love  with  me,  but 
that  need  not  prevent  your  marrying  me.  You  say  you  are 
tired  of  everything,  and  have  nothing  to  live  for,  so  why  not 
try  it?  ” His  voice  grew  more  earnest,  and  he  exclaimed: 
“For  I know  that  one  day  you  too  will  be  fond  of  me!  You 
could  not  help  it,  seeing  how  fond  I am  of  you.” 

“ You  know  that  I have  always  been  fond  of  you,”  she  said 
seriously,  “ but  it  is  not  a feeling  you  would  be  satisfied  with 
in  the  long  run.  A strong  and  entire  devotion  is  more  than  I 
can  give.” 

“ Not  at  all.  We  can  all  give  that.  Was  I not  convinced 
that  I should  never  experience  anything  but  — little  love  af- 
fairs? In  fact,  I did  not  believe  anything  else  existed.”  His 
voice  sank.  “ You  are  the  first  woman  I love.” 

She  stood  still  and  silent. 

“ I have  never  uttered  that  word  to  any  woman  before  — I 
had  a kind  of  reverence  for  it,  but  then  I have  never  loved  a 
woman  before.  I was  always  in  love  with  something  particular 
about  them  — the  corners  of  Cesca’s  mouth,  for  instance,  when 
she  smiled;  her  unconscious  coquetry.  There  was  always  one 
thing  or  other  that  took  my  fancy  and  inspired  me  to  invent 
adventures  about  them  — adventures  I wanted  to  experience. 
I fell  in  love  with  one  woman  because  the  first  time  I saw  her 
she  wore  a beautiful  red  silk  dress,  almost  black  in  the  folds, 
like  the  darkest  of  roses.  I thought  of  her  always  in  that  dress. 
And  with  you  that  time  in  Viterbo  — you  were  so  sweet,  so 
gentle  and  reserved,  and  there  was  a glint  in  your  eyes  when  the 


JENNY 


276 

rest  of  us  laughed  as  if  you  would  have  liked  to  be  merry  with 
us,  but  dared  not.  That  time  I was  in  love  with  the  idea  of 
seeing  you  gay  and  smiling. 

“ But  I have  never  loved  another  human  being  till  now.” 

He  turned  his  face  from  her,  staring  at  the  jet  of  water  rising 
in  the  moonlight,  and  the  new  sensation  in  him  rose  too,  in- 
spiring him  with  new  words,  which  burst  in  ecstasy  from  his 
lips: 

“ I love  you  so  much,  Jenny,  that  everything  else  is  of  no 
account.  I am  not  sorry  you  don’t  love  me  in  return,  for  I 
know  you  will  some  day;  I feel  that  my  love  is  strong  enough 
to  make  you  return  it.  I have  time  to  wait;  my  happiness  will 
be  in  loving  you. 

“ When  you  spoke  about  being  trampled  upon  and  throwing 
yourself  under  the  train,  something  happened  to  me.  I could 
not  explain  what  it  was.  I knew  only  that  I could  not  listen 
to  you  saying  such  things.  I knew  I would  never  allow  it  to 
happen  — not  for  my  life.  And  when  you  spoke  of  the  child, 
I felt  infinitely  sad  to  think  that  you  had  suffered  so  intensely 
and  that  I could  not  do  anything  for  you.  And  I was  sad  too 
because  I wanted  you  to  love  me.  Everything  you  said  was 
echoed  in  my  soul  — the  boundless  love  and  the  bitter  longing 

— and  I understood  that  my  love  for  you  was  just  that.  While 
we  were  in  the  trattoria  and  walking  out  here  it  has  grown  more 
and  more  clear  to  me  how  much  you  are  to  me,  how  I love  you 

— and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  has  always  been  so.  All  I knowT 
and  remember  of  you  is  part  of  it.  I understand  now  why  I 
have  been  so  depressed  since  you  came  here.  It  was  because 
I saw  how  you  suffered.  You  were  so  quiet  and  sad  the  first 
weeks,  and  then  came  those  fits  of  dissipation  — and  I remem- 
ber that  day  on  the  road  to  Warnemiinde,  when  you  were  crying 
against  my  shoulder  — everything  that  concerns  you  is  part  of 
my  love  for  you. 

“ I know  how  it  all  happened  with  the  other  men  you  have 


JENNY 


277 

known  — the  boy’s  father  too.  You  have  talked  and  talked 
with  them  about  all  you  have  been  thinking,  and  there  was  no 
response  to  your  words  even  when  you  tried  to  make  them  realize 
what  you  felt,  because  they  could  not  understand  your  mind. 
But  I know  it  — all  you  have  been  telling  me  today  and  what 
you  said  to  me  that  day  in  Warnemimde  you  could  not  have 
told  to  anybody  else.  Only  to  me,  because  I understand  — is 
it  not  so?  ” 

She  bent  her  head  in  surprised  assent.  It  was  true. 

“ I know  that  I alone  understand  you  thoroughly.  I know 
exactly  what  you  are,  and  I love  you  as  you  are.  If  your  mind 
were  full  of  stains  and  bleeding  wounds,  I would  love  and  kiss 
them  until  you  were  clean  and  well  again.  My  love  has  no 
other  purpose  but  to  see  you  become  what  you  always  wanted 
to  be  and  must  be  to  feel  happy.  If  you  did  ever  so  foolish  a 
thing,  I would  only  think  you  were  ill  or  that  some  strange  in- 
fluence had  poisoned  your  mind.  If  you  deceived  me  or  if  I 
found  you  lying  drunk  in  the  road,  you  would  be  my  own 
darling  Jenny  just  the  same. 

“Will  you  not  be  mine  — give  yourself  to  me?  Will  you 
not  come  into  my  arms  and  let  me  hold  you  and  make  you  happy 
and  whole?  I don’t  know  now  quite  how  to  set  about  it,  but 
my  love  will  teach  me,  and  every  morning  you  will  wake  up 
less  sad  — every  day  will  seem  a little  brighter  and  warmer 
than  the  day  before,  and  your  sorrow  less  great.  Let  us  go  to 
Viterbo  or  anywhere  you  like.  Give  yourself  to  me,  and  I will 
nurse  you  as  if  you  were  a sick  child.  When  you  are  well  again 
you  will  have  learnt  to  love  me  and  to  know  that  we  two  cannot 
live  without  each  other. 

“You  are  ill;  you  cannot  look  after  yourself.  Close  your 
eyes  and  give  me  your  hands;  I will  love  you  and  make  you 
well  — I know  I can  do  it.” 

Jenny  was  leaning  against  a pillar.  She  turned  her  white 
face  to  him,  smiling  sadly: 


278 


JENNY 


“ How  can  you  imagine  I would  do  such  a great  wrong,  and 
sin  against  God  ? ” 

“You  mean  because  you  don’t  love  me?  But  I tell  you  it 
does  not  matter,  because  I know  my  love  is  such  that  you  will 
end  by  returning  it,  when  you  have  lived  wrapped  in  it  for  a 
time.” 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms,  covering  her  face  with  kisses.  She 
made  no  resistance,  but  whispered: 

“ Don’t,  Gunnar,  please.” 

He  released  her  reluctantly: 

“ Why  may  I not?  ” 

“ Because  it  is  you.  I don’t  know  if  I should  have  minded 
if  it  had  been  anybody  else  for  whom  I did  not  care  at  all.” 
Gunnar  held  her  hand  and  they  walked  up  and  down  in  the 
moonlight. 

“ I understand.  When  you  had  the  little  boy  you  thought 
your  life  had  some  aim  and  purpose  again  after  all  these  aimless 
years,  because  you  loved  him  and  you  needed  him.  When  he 
died  you  became  indifferent  to  everything  and  considered  your- 
self superfluous  in  the  world.” 

Jenny  nodded: 

“ There  are  a few  people  I care  for  enough  to  be  sorry  if  I 
knew  them  in  distress  and  glad  if  all  was  well  with  them.  But 
I myself  cannot  add  either  to  their  sorrow  or  their  joy  — it  has 
always  been  so,  and  one  of  the  reasons  why  I was  unhappy  and 
filled  with  longing  was  just  that  my  life  was  spent  without 
making  anybody  happy.  My  sole  wish  and  yearning  was  to 
make  another  being  happy.  I have  always  believed  in  that  as 
the  greatest  blessing  in  life.  You  spoke  of  the  joy  of  work  — 
to  me  it  never  seemed  enough,  and  it  is  very  selfish,  besides, 
because  the  greatest  joy  and  satisfaction  of  it  is  yours  alone; 
you  cannot  share  it  with  anybody  else.  Unless  you  can  share 
your  happiness  with  others,  you  lose  the  greatest  possible  joy. 
When  you  are  quite  young  and  feel  strongly  you  are  selfish  per- 


JENNY 


279 

haps  sometimes  — I have  felt  it  myself  when  I have  reached  a 
step  nearer  my  goal,  but  as  a rule  it  is  only  the  abnormal  beings 
who  amass  riches  for  any  other  purpose  than  spending.  A 
woman’s  life  is  useless  to  my  mind  if  she  is  not  the  joy  of 
somebody  else  — and  I have  never  been  that  — I have  only 
caused  sorrow.  The  little  happiness  I have  been  able  to  give 
was  only  what  any  one  else  could  have  given  just  as  well; 
they  have  loved  me  only  for  what  they  imagined  me  to  be,  not 
for  my  real  self. 

“ After  my  baby’s  death  I began  to  realize  how  fortunate  it 
was  that  there  was  nobody  in  the  world  whom  I could  cause  a 
really  inconsolable  grief  — nobody  to  whom  I was  indispens- 
able. 

“ And  now  you  tell  me  all  this.  You  have  always  been  the 
one  person  I least  of  all  wanted  to  drag  into  my  confused  life; 
I have  always  been  more  fond  of  you,  in  a way,  than  of  any 
one  else  I know.  I enjoyed  our  friendship  so  much,  because  I 
thought  that  love  and  all  it  brings  in  its  train  could  never  come 
between  us.  You  were  too  good  for  it,  I thought.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  it  had  never  changed!  ” 

“To  me  it  seems  now  that  it  has  never  been  different,”  he 
said  gently.  “ I love  you  and  you  need  me.  I know  I can 
make  you  happy  again,  and  when  I have  done  that  you  will 
have  made  me  happy.” 

Jenny  shook  her  head: 

“ If  I had  the  least  bit  of  faith  in  myself  left,  it  would  be 
different.  I might  have  listened  to  you  if  I had  not  felt  so 
keenly  that  I have  done  with  life.  You  say  you  love  me,  but  I 
know  that  what  you  think  you  love  in  me  is  destroyed  — dead. 
It  is  the  same  old  story:  you  are  in  love  with  some  quality  you 
dream  that  I possess  — that  I have  before  or  might  have  ac- 
quired. But  one  day  you  would  see  me  as  I really  am,  and  I 
should  only  have  made  you  unhappy  too.” 

“ I should  never  look  upon  it  as  unhappiness  whatever  my 


28o 


JENNY 


fate  might  be.  You  may  not  be  aware  of  it  yourself,  but  I 
know  that  in  the  state  you  are  now  it  only  needs  a touch  for 
you  to  fall  — into  something  that  would  be  madness.  But  I 
love  you,  and  I can  see  all  the  way  that  has  led  you  to  it, 
and  if  you  feel  I would  follow  you  to  try  and  carry  you  back  in 
my  arms,  because  I love  you  in  spite  of  all.” 

As  they  stood  by  their  doors  in  the  dark  passage  he  took 
her  hands:  “ Jenny,  rather  than  be  alone,  would  you  not 

like  me  to  remain  with  you  tonight?  ” 

She  looked  at  him  with  a curious  smile. 

“ Oh,  Jenny!  ” He  shook  his  head.  “ I may  come  to  you, 
all  the  same.  Would  you  be  angry  — or  sorry?  ” 

“I  think  I should  be  sorry  — for  your  sake.  No,  do  not 
come,  Gunnar.  I will  not  take  your  love  when  I know  I could 
just  as  well  give  mine  to  anybody  else.” 

He  laughed  a little,  half  angrily,  half  sadly. 

“ Then  I ought  to  do  it.  If  once  you  were  mine  you  would 
never  belong  to  anybody  else  — I know  you  too  well  for  that  — 
but  as  you  ask  me  not  to,  I will  wait:”  he  added,  with  the 
same  curious  little  laugh. 


XI 

ALL  day  long  the  weather  had  been  bad,  with  cold,  pale 
clouds  high  up  in  the  sky;  towards  evening  some  thin 
brass-yellow  stripes  appeared  on  the  western  horizon. 
Jenny  had  been  up  to  Monte  Celio  to  sketch  in  the  afternoon, 
but  it  did  not  come  to  much  — she  had  been  sitting  listlessly 
on  the  big  stairs  outside  of  San  Gregorio,  looking  down  into  the 


JENNY 


281 

grove  where  the  big  trees  were  beginning  to  bud  and  daisies 
shone  all  over  the  grass.  She  came  back  through  the  avenue 
below  the  south  side  of  the  Palatine.  The  ruins  showed  dull 
grey  against  the  palms  of  the  convent  on  the  mountain-top; 
the  evergreen  shrubs  hung  on  the  slope,  powdered  with  chalky 
dust. 

Some  shivering  postcard-sellers  loitered  about  outside  the 
Constantin  arch  on  the  Piazza,  where  the  ruins  of  the  Coles- 
seum,  the  Palatine,  and  the  Forum  lay.  Very  few  tourists  were 
about;  a couple  of  skinny  old  ladies  bargained  in  vile  Italian 
with  a mosaic  pedlar. 

A small  boy  of  barely  three  hung  on  to  Jenny’s  cloak,  offering 
her  a small  wisp  of  pansies.  He  was  exquisitely  black  eyed 
and  long  haired,  and  dressed  in  national  costume,  with  pointed 
hat,  velvet  jacket,  and  sandals  over  white  woollen  socks.  He 
could  not  speak  distinctly  yet,  but  he  could  manage  to  ask  for 
a soldo. 

Jenny  gave  him  the  coin,  and  instantly  the  mother  came  up 
to  his  side,  thanking  her  and  taking  the  money  herself.  She, 
too,  had  tried  to  give  her  dress  a national  touch  by  lacing  a 
red  velvet  bodice  on  top  of  her  dirty  checked  blouse,  and  pin- 
ning on  top  of  her  hair  a serviette  folded  into  a square.  She 
carried  an  infant  in  her  arms.  It  was  three  weeks  old,  she 
said,  in  answer  to  Jenny’s  question.  Yes,  the  poor  dear  was  ill. 

The  infant  was  no  bigger  than  Jenny’s  own  boy  had  been  at 
birth.  Its  skin  was  red  and  sore  and  peeling,  it  was  panting 
as  if  its  throat  were  choked  by  mucus,  and  the  eyes  looked 
wearily  from  under  inflamed,  half-closed  lids. 

Oh  yes,  she  took  it  every  day  to  the  hospital  for  treatment, 
said  the  mother,  but  they  said  there  that  it  was  going  to  die. 
Best  thing  for  it,  too  — the  woman  was  looking  so  tired  and 
sad,  besides  being  ugly  and  toothless. 

Jenny  felt  the  tears  mounting  to  her  eyes.  Poor  little  crea- 


282 


JENNY 


ture,  it  certainly  was  much  better  for  it  to  die.  She  passed 
her  hand  caressingly  over  the  little  ugly  face.  She  had  given 
the  woman  some  money,  and  was  on  the  point  of  going  when  a 
man  suddenly  passed  her.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  stopped 
for  a moment,  but  walked  on  as  Jenny  did  not  acknowledge 
his  salute.  It  was  Helge  Gram. 

She  was  too  much  taken  aback  to  think  of  answering.  She 
bent  down  to  the  little  boy  with  the  pansies,  taking  his  hands 
and  pulling  him  closer  to  her,  and  talked  to  him,  trying  to 
master  the  unreasonable  shivering  of  her  whole  body. 

She  turned  her  head  once  in  the  direction  he  had  gone  and 
saw  him  standing  on  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  street  from  the 
Piazza  round  the  Colosseum,  and  looking  in  her  direction. 

She  remained  in  the  same  position,  talking  to  the  child  and 
the  woman.  When  she  looked  up  again  he  was  gone,  but  she 
waited  long  after  she  had  seen  his  grey  coat  and  hat  disappear 
round  a comer. 

Then  she  went  home,  almost  running  through  side  streets  and 
passages,  afraid  of  meeting  him  every  time  she  turned  a corner. 

She  got  as  far  as  the  other  side  of  Pincio,  and  went  to  have 
some  food  in  a trattoria  where  she  had  never  been  before.  Then 
after  a rest  and  some  wine,  she  began  to  feel  better. 

If  she  met  Helge  and  he  spoke  to  her  it  would  be  very 
painful;  she  would  much  prefer  to  escape  it,  but  if  it  happened, 
it  was  nothing  to  be  so  senselessly  afraid  of.  Everything  be- 
tween them  was  finished;  what  had  occurred  after  their  separa- 
tion was  no  concern  of  his,  and  he  had  no  right  to  take  her  to 
task  for  anything.  Whatever  he  knew  about  it,  and  whatever 
he  had  to  say,  she  had  said  it  all  to  herself,  for  nobody  knew 
better  than  she  what  she  had  done.  She  had  to  answer  only 
to  herself;  nothing  else  could  compare  with  that  ordeal. 

Need  she  fear  anybody?  Nobody  could  do  her  a great 
wrong  than  she  had  done  to  herself. 


JENNY  283 

It  had  been  a bad  day  — one  of  those  days  when  she  did  not 
feel  sober.  However,  she  felt  better  now. 

Scarcely  was  she  out  in  the  street  before  the  same  stupid, 
desperate  fright  came  over  her  again,  and,  without  realizing  it, 
she  rushed  on  as  if  lashed  by  it,  with  clenched  hands  and  mut- 
tering to  herself. 

Once  she  pulled  off  her  gloves,  because  she  was  burning  hot, 
and  she  recollected  suddenly  having  noticed  a wet  spot  on  one 
of  them  after  she  had  caressed  the  child.  She  flung  them  away 
in  disgust. 

When  she  reached  home  she  stood  a moment  hesitating  in 
the  passage,  then  knocked  at  Gunnar’s  door,  but  he  was  not 
in.  She  went  to  look  on  the  roof;  there  was  no  one  there. 

She  entered  her  room,  lit  the  lamp,  and  sat  staring  at  the 
flame,  her  arms  folded.  After  a while  she  rose  and  began  walk- 
ing restlessly  up  and  down  the  floor  — only  to  sit  down  again 
as  before.  She  listened  breathlessly  to  every  sound  on  the 
stairs.  Oh,  if  only  Gunnar  would  come!  And  not  the  other 
one.  But  how  could  he?  He  did  not  know  where  she  lived 
— he  might  have  met  somebody  who  knew  and  asked.  Oh, 
Gunnar,  Gunnar,  come! 

She  would  go  straight  to  him,  throw  herself  in  his  arms. 

The  moment  she  had  seen  Helge  Gram’s  light  brown  eyes 
again,  her  whole  past,  that  had  begun  under  their  glance,  con- 
fronted her.  It  all  came  back  — the  disgust,  the  doubt  of  her 
own  ability  to  feel,  to  will  and  to  choose,  and  the  suspicion  that 
in  reality  she  wanted  what  she  said  she  did  not.  While  she  was 
pretending  to  herself  that  she  wanted  to  be  strong,  pure,  and 
whole  in  her  feelings,  and  while  she  said  she  wanted  to  be 
honest,  courageous,  disciplined  — to  work  and  to  sacrifice  her- 
self for  others  — she  allowed  herself  to  be  tossed  between  moods 
and  desires  she  did  not  care  to  fight,  although  she  knew  she 
should  have  done  so.  She  had  pretended  to  love  so  as  to  sneak 


284  JENNY 

into  a place  in  life  which  she  could  never  have  attained  if  she 
had  been  honest. 

She  had  wanted  to  change  her  nature  to  fall  in  with  the 
others  who  lived,  although  she  knew  she  would  always  be  a 
stranger  among  them  because  she  was  of  a different  kind.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  stand  alone,  a prisoner,  so  to  say,  of  her 
own  nature.  And  her  relations  to  those  who  were  strange  to 
her  innermost  being  — the  son  and  the  father  — had  been  un- 
natural and  repulsive.  In  consequence  of  it  her  own  inner 
self  was  ruined;  every  fixed  point  in  herself,  to  which  she  had 
held  on,  gave  way  — crumbled  to  nothing.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  dissolving  from  within. 

If  Helge  came,  if  she  met  him,  she  knew  that  the  despair 
and  disgust  of  her  own  life  would  overwhelm  her.  She  did  not 
know  what  would  happen,  but  one  thing  was  certain  — she 
could  not  face  a repetition  of  the  old  scenes. 

And  Gunnar.  All  these  weeks,  while  he  had  been  begging 
of  her  to  be  his,  she  had  not  made  up  her  mind  if  she  loved  him 
or  not.  He  wanted  her  such  as  she  was,  and  he  vowed  that  he 
could  help  her  — build  up  again  all  that  had  been  destroyed  in 
her. 

Sometimes  she  wished  that  he  would  take  her  by  force,  so 
that  she  need  not  choose.  It  did  not  matter  what  he  said;  she 
knew  that  if  she  became  his,  the  little  pride  she  had  left  told 
her  that  the  responsibility  was  her  own.  She  had  to  become 
what  she  had  once  been  — what  he  believed  she  had  been  and 
could  be  again.  Whether  she  cared  or  not,  she  had  to  clean 
herself  from  all  that  soiled  her  now,  bury  in  a new  life  every- 
-thing  that  had  happened  since  she  gave  Helge  Gram  the  kiss  by 
which  she  betrayed  her  faith  and  her  whole  life  up  to  that 
spring  day  on  the  Campagna. 

Did  she  want  to  be  his?  Did  she  love  him  because  he  was 
all  that  she  had  wished  to  be,  because  his  whole  being  awoke 


JENNY  285 

in  her  all  that  which  she  had  once  chosen  to  worship  and  to 
nurse  — every  faculty  she  had  thought  worth  developing  ? 

The  love  she  had  looked  for  on  byways,  driven  by  her  morbid 
longing  and  feverish  restlessness  — would  she  find  it  here  by 
surrendering  to  him,  by  shutting  her  eyes  and  giving  herself  to 
the  one  man  she  really  trusted  — the  one  who  all  her  instincts 
told  her  was  her  conscience  and  her  just  judge? 

She  had  not  been  able  to  do  it  — not  in  all  these  weeks.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  ought  to  try  and  get  out  by  her  own  will 
from  the  mire  into  which  she  had  descended;  she  wanted  to 
feel  that  it  was  her  will  from  the  old  days  which  had  taken  the 
lead  of  her  shattered  mind,  so  that  she  could  get  back  ever  so 
little  of  the  respect  and  confidence  in  herself  from  before. 

If  she  was  to  go  on  living,  Gunnar  was  life  itself  to  her.  A 
few  words  written  by  him  on  a piece  of  paper,  a book  that 
brought  her  a message  from  some  emotion  in  his  soul  had 
awakened  the  last  smouldering  longing  back  to  life  when  after 
the  death  of  the  child  she  had  dragged  herself  about  like  a 
maimed  animal. 

If  he  came  now  — he  would  win  her.  If  he  would  but  carry 
her  the  first  bit  of  the  way,  she  would  try  to  walk  the  rest  of  it 
herself.  And  as  she  sat  there  waiting  for  him  she  decided  in 
her  shrinking  soul:  If  he  comes,  I shall  live.  If  the  other 

one  comes,  I must  die. 

And  when  she  heard  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  they  were  not 
those  of  Gunnar,  and  there  was  a knock  at  the  door,  she  bent 
her  head  and  went  shivering  to  open  it  for  Helge  Gram,  in- 
stinctively feeling  that  she  opened  the  door  to  the  fate  she  had 
challenged. 

She  stood  looking  at  him  while  he  walked  into  the  room, 
putting  his  hat  on  a chair.  She  had  not  acknowledged  his 
greeting  this  time  either. 

“ I knew  you  were  in  town,”  said  he.  “ I came  the  day 


286 


JENNY 


before  yesterday  from  Paris.  I looked  up  your  address  at  the 
club,  and  meant  to  come  and  see  you  some  day  — but  then  I 
saw  you  in  the  street  this  afternoon.  I recognized  your  grey 
fur  a long  way  off.”  He  spoke  swiftly  — out  of  breath,  as  it 
were.  “Will  you  not  say  good  evening  to  me?  Are  you  vexed 
because  I have  come  to  see  you?  ” 

“ Good  evening,  Helge,”  she  said,  taking  the  hand  he  offered 
her.  “Will  you  not  sit  down,  please?” 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  She  could  hear  that  her  voice 
sounded  calm  and  as  usual.  But  in  her  brain  she  had  the  same 
delirious  sensation  of  dread  as  in  the  afternoon. 

“ I wanted  to  come  and  see  you,”  said  Helge,  sitting  down 
on  a chair  close  to  her. 

“ It  was  good  of  you,”  replied  Jenny.  Both  were  silent. 

“ You  live  in  Bergen  now,”  she  said.  “ I saw  that  you  had 
got  your  degree.  I congratulate  you.” 

“Thank  you.” 

There  was  another  pause. 

“ You  have  been  abroad  a long  time.  I meant  to  write  to 
you  sometimes,  but  it  never  came  off.  Heggen  lives  in  this 
house,  I see.” 

“Yes;  I wrote  him  to  get  a studio  for  me,  but  they  are  so 
dear  and  so  difficult  to  find.  This  room  has  a good  light, 
though.” 

“ I see  that  you  have  some  pictures  drying.” 

He  rose,  went  across  the  room,  but  returned  immediately  to 
his  seat.  Jenny  bent  her  head,  feeling  that  he  did  not  take 
his  eyes  from  her.  They  tried  to  keep  up  conversation.  He 
asked  about  Francesca  Ahlin  and  other  acquaintances  they  had 
in  common,  but  there  were  long  intervals  when  he  sat  staring 
at  her. 

“ Do  you  know  that  my  parents  are  divorced?  ” he  asked 
suddenly. 

She  nodded. 


JENNY 


287 

“ They  stayed  together  for  our  sake  as  long  as  they  could, 
whining  and  creaking  against  each  other  like  two  millstones 
until  they  had  ground  everything  to  powder  between  them. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  grind,  I suppose,  so  the  mill  stopped. 

“ I remember  when  I was  a boy.  They  did  not  fight,  but 
there  was  something  in  their  voices  that  made  you  think  they 
would  like  to.  Mother  abused  him  and  used  plain  talk,  always 
ending  with  tears.  Father  kept  cool  and  quiet,  but  his  voice 
was  full  of  hatred  and  so  hard  and  cutting.  I lay  in  my  bed 
listening  to  this  performance  that  was  forced  on  me.  I used 
to  think  what  a relief  it  would  be  to  put  a knitting  needle  right 
through  my  head,  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  The 
voices  created  a physical  pain  in  my  ears  and  spread  to  the 
whole  of  my  head.  Well,  that  was  the  beginning  — they  have 
done  their  duty  as  parents,  and  now  it  is  all  over. 

“ Hatred  is  an  ugly  thing;  it  makes  everything  ugly  that 
comes  in  contact  with  it.  I went  to  see  my  sister  last  summer. 
We  have  never  been  sympathetic,  but  I thought  it  disgusting 
to  see  her  with  that  husband  of  hers.  Sometimes  I saw  him 
kiss  her  — taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  thick  wet  mouth,  he  kissed 
his  wife.  I saw  Sophy  get  quite  white  when  he  touched  her 
He  is  a pope  in  his  pulpit  and  a libertine  at  home. 

“ As  to  you  and  me  — it  was  quite  natural.  I understood  it 
afterwards  — that  the  fine,  delicate  threads  between  us  should 
break,  that  they  could  not  stand  the  atmosphere  at  home.  When 
I had  gone  from  you  that  time  I regretted  it,  and  meant  to 
write  to  you,  but  do  you  know  why  I did  not?  I had  a letter 
from  my  father,  telling  me  he  had  been  to  see  you  and  that  he 
thought  I ought  to  resume  my  relations  with  you.  I have  a 
superstitious  objection  to  any  advice  from  that  quarter,  so  I 
did  not  write. 

“ All  the  time  since  we  parted  I have  been  longing  for  you, 
Jenny,  dreaming  of  you,  and  recalling  again  and  again  to  my 
memory  the  time  I spent  here  with  you.  Do  you  know  which 


288 


JENNY 


place  in  Rome  I revisited  first  of  all  — yesterday  ? I went  to 
Montagnola  and  I found  our  names  on  the  cactus  leaf.” 

Jenny  was  sitting  with  clenched  hands,  very  pale. 

“ You  look  exactly  the  same  as  then,  and  you  have  lived 
three  years  about  which  I don’t  know  anything,”  said  Helge 
gently.  “ I can  scarcely  realize  that  I am  here  with  you  again 
— it  seems  as  if  all  that  has  happened  since  we  parted  here  in 
Rome  were  not  true.  Yet  you  belong  perhaps  to  somebody  else 
now?  ” 

Jenny  did  not  answer. 

“Are  you  engaged?”  he  asked  quietly. 

“ No.” 

“ Jenny  ” — Helge  bent  his  head  so  that  she  could  not  see  his 
face — “all  these  years  I have  been  hoping  — dreaming  of 
winning  you  back.  I have  imagined  that  we  should  meet  again 
some  day  and  come  to  an  understanding.  You  said  I was 
the  first  man  you  had  been  fond  of.  Is  my  dream  impossible?  ” 

“ Yes,”  she  said. 

“ Heggen?  ” 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

“ I have  always  been  jealous  of  Heggen,”  said  Helge  gently. 
“ I thought  he  was  the  one,  especially  when  I saw  that  you 
both  lived  here.  So  you  are  in  love  with  each  other  ? ” 

Jenny  still  did  not  answer. 

“ Do  you  love  him?  ” 

“ Yes,  but  I will  not  marry  him.” 

“ Oh,  I see,”  said  Helge,  in  a hard  voice. 

“No.”  She  bent  her  head,  tired,  smiling  sadly:  “I  have 

done  with  love;  I don’t  want  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
it.  I am  tired,  and  I wish  you  would  go,  Helge.” 

But  he  did  not  move. 

“ I cannot  realize  now  when  I see  you  again  that  it  is  all 
over.  I never  would  believe  it.  I have  been  thinking  so  much 
of  it,  I suppose  it  was  my  own  fault.  I was  so  timid,  I never 


JENNY 


289 

knew  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  Everything  might  have 
been  quite  different.  I have  often  remembered  the  last  evening 
I was  with  you  in  Rome,  and  it  seemed  always  that  such  an 
occasion  would  present  itself  again,  for  I left  you  then  because 
I thought  it  was  right.  Surely,  that  could  not  have  been  the 
cause  of  my  losing  you?  I had  never  been  near  a woman 
then,”  he  said,  looking  down.  “ I was  warned  by  what  I had 
seen  at  home.  Dreams  and  fancies  became  a hell  at  times,  but 
that  fear  was  always  paramount. 

“ I am  twenty-nine  and  there  has  been  no  beautiful  or  happy 
experience  in  my  life  but  that  short  spring  spent  with  you. 
Can  you  not  understand  that  I have  never  been  able  to  sep- 
arate you  from  my  thoughts,  that  I love  you  as  before?  The 
only  happiness  I have  known  is  that  you  gave  me.  I cannot 
let  you  go  out  of  my  life  — not  now.” 

She  got  up,  trembling,  and  he  rose  too.  Instinctively  she 
drew  back  a few  steps  from  him: 

“ Helge,  there  has  been  another.” 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  her. 

“ You  say  there  has  been  another  — and  it  could  have  been 
I.  I don’t  care;  I want  you  all  the  same.  I want  you  now 
because  you  promised  me  once  to  be  mine.” 

Terrified,  she  tried  to  go  past  him,  but  he  seized  her  violently 
in  his  arms.  It  took  a few  seconds  for  her  brain  to  realize  that 
he  was  kissing  her  mouth.  She  thought  she  made  a resistance, 
but  was  in  fact  almost  passive  in  his  arms.  She  wanted  to 
tell  him  not  to,  and  she  wanted  to  say  who  the  other  had  been, 
but  she  could  not.  She  would  have  told  him  about  the  child, 
but  when  she  remembered  the  boy  she  shrank  from  mentioning 
him;  she  felt  she  must  not  drag  her  child  into  the  disaster  she 
knew  was  coming.  As  this  thought  crossed  her  mind  she 
imagined  she  felt  the  dead  little  one  caressing  her,  and  it  gave 
her  a sensation  of  joy,  so  that  her  body  relaxed  for  a second 
in  his  arms. 


JENNY 


290 

“You  are  mine  — mine  only  — yes,  yes,  Jenny!” 

She  tore  herself  away  from  him  and,  running  to  the  door, 
she  called  aloud  for  Gunnar.  Helge  was  at  her  side  again  in 
an  instant,  taking  her  back  in  his  arms. 

They  wrestled  with  each  other  by  the  door  without  a word. 
It  seemed  to  Jenny  that  her  life  depended  on  her  opening  it  and 
escaping  into  Gunnar’s  room,  but  feeling  Helge  close  to  her, 
stronger  than  she,  as  he  held  her,  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  no  escape  — and  at  last  she  gave  way. 

In  the  grey  morning  light,  he  came  over  to  her  to  kiss  her: 

“ My  glorious  Jenny.  How  wonderfully  beautiful  you  are. 
You  are  mine  now,  and  everything  will  come  right,  will  it  not? 
Oh,  I love  you  so. 

“ Are  you  tired?  You  must  sleep  when  I have  gone,  and  I 
will  come  to  see  you  again  at  noon.  Sleep  soundly,  my  darling 
Jenny.  Are  you  so  tired?  ” 

“ Yes,  very  tired,  Helge.” 

She  was  lying  with  her  eyes  half  closed,  looking  at  the  pale 
morning  light  coming  through  the  ribs  of  the  blind. 

He  kissed  her  when  he  stood  fully  dressed,  holding  his  hat; 
then  he  kneeled  by  her  bed  and  put  an  arm  under  her  shoulder: 
“ Thank  you  for  tonight.  Do  you  remember  that  I said 
those  same  words  to  you  the  first  morning  in  Rome,  w’hen  we 
were  at  Aventine?  ” 

Jenny  nodded  on  her  pillow. 

“ One  more  kiss  — and  good-night  — my  lovely  Jenny.” 

At  the  door  he  stopped: 

“ What  about  the  front  door  ? Is  there  a key,  or  is  it  one  of 
those  ordinary  ones  with  a latch  ? ” 

“ Yes,  an  ordinary  one.  You  can  open  it  all  right  from  the 
inside.” 

She  remained  in  bed  with  her  eyes  closed.  She  saw  her  own 
body  as  it  lay  under  the  cover,  white,  bare,  beautiful  — a thing 


JENNY  291 

that  she  had  flung  away  as  she  had  the  gloves.  It  was  not  hers 
any  more. 

She  gave  a start  on  hearing  Heggen  mount  the  stairs  slowly 
and  open  his  door.  He  walked  up  and  down  in  his  room, 
then  came  out  again  and  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  roof.  She 
heard  him  pacing  to  and  fro  above  her  head.  She  was  sure  he 
knew,  but  it  did  not  make  much  impression  on  her  tired  brain. 
She  felt  no  pain  now.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  would  prob- 
ably think  what  had  happened  as  natural  and  unavoidable  as 
she  did.  She  could  not  decide  what  was  the  next  thing  to  do 
— it  must  just  come  as  the  other  had  done,  as  a necessary  con- 
sequence of  her  opening  the  door  last  night  to  Helge. 

She  put  out  one  foot  from  under  the  cover  and  lay  looking  at 
it.  It  was  pretty.  She  bent  it,  accentuating  the  instep.  Yes, 
it  was  pretty,  white  with  blue  veins  and  pink  heel  and  toes. 

She  was  tired  — it  was  nice  to  feel  so  utterly  tired.  It  felt 
like  having  recovered  from  some  keen  suffering.  She  was 
tired  now,  and  what  she  had  to  do  she  did  mechanically. 

She  got  up  and  dressed.  When  she  had  put  on  stockings, 
bodice,  and  a skirt  she  slipped  her  feet  into  a pair  of  bronze 
slippers,  washed,  and  did  her  hair  in  front  of  the  glass  without 
noticing  the  reflection  of  her  face  in  it.  Then  she  went  to  the 
small  table  where  she  kept  her  painting  things,  looking  for 
the  box  containing  her  implements.  In  the  night  she  had  been 
thinking  of  the  small  triangular  scraper, — she  had  sometimes 
played  with  it,  putting  it  against  her  artery. 

She  took  it  out,  looked  at  it,  testing  it  with  her  finger,  but 
she  put  it  back  again  and  took  out  a folding  knife  that  she 
had  once  bought  in  Paris.  It  had  a corkscrew,  tin-opener,  and 
many  blades;  one  was  short,  pointed,  and  broad.  She  opened  it. 

She  went  back  to  her  bed  and  sat  down  on  it.  Putting  her 
pillow  on  the  table  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  she  steadied  her 
left  hand  on  it  and  cut  through  the  artery. 

The  blood  spurted  out,  hitting  a small  water-colour  on  the 


JENNY 


292 

wall  above  her  bed.  Noticing  it,  she  moved  her  hand.  She 
lay  down  on  the  bed  and  mechanically  pushed  off  her  shoes 
with  her  feet,  and  put  her  hand  under  the  cover  to  prevent  the 
blood  from  making  a mess. 

She  did  not  think;  she  was  not  afraid;  she  felt  only  that  she 
was  surrendering  to  the  inevitable.  The  pain  of  the  cut  was 
not  great  — only  sharp  and  distinct,  and  concentrated  on  one 
spot. 

After  a while  a strange,  unknown  sensation  took  hold  of 
her,  an  agony  that  grew  and  grew  — not  a fear  of  anything  in 
particular,  but  the  feeling  of  an  ache  round  her  heart  and  sick- 
ness, as  it  were.  She  opened  her  eyes,  but  black  specks  flick- 
ered before  her  sight  and  she  could  not  breathe.  The  room 
seemed  to  crumble  down  on  her.  She  tumbled  out  of  bed,  tore 
the  door  open,  rushed  up  the  stairs  to  the  roof,  and  collapsed 
on  the  last  step. 

Helge  had  met  Gunnar  Heggen  as  he  came  out  of  the  front 
door.  They  had  looked  at  each  other,  both  touching  their 
hats,  and  passed  on  without  a word. 

That  meeting  had  sobered  Helge.  After  the  intoxication  of 
the  night  his  mood  instantly  changed  to  the  other  extreme,  and 
what  he  had  experienced  seemed  to  him  incredible,  inconceiv- 
able, and  monstrous. 

He  had  dreamt  of  this  meeting  with  her  all  these  years.  She, 
the  queen  of  his  dreams,  had  scarcely  spoken  to  him,  at  first 
sitting  quiet  and  cold  and  then  suddenly  throwing  herself  into 
his  arms,  wild,  mad,  without  saying  a word.  It  struck  him  now 
that  she  had  said  nothing  - — nothing  at  all  to  his  words  of  love 
in  the  night.  A strange,  apalling  woman,  his  Jenny.  He 
realized  suddenly  that  she  had  never  been  his. 

Helge  walked  about  in  the  quiet  streets,  up  and  down  the 
Corso.  He  tried  to  think  of  her  as  she  had  been  when  they 
were  engaged,  to  separate  the  dreams  from  the  reality,  but  he 
could  not  form  a clear  picture  of  her,  and  he  realized  that  he 


JENNY 


293 

had  never  penetrated  to  the  bottom  of  her  soul.  There  had 
always  been  something  about  her  he  could  not  see,  though  he 
felt  it  was  there. 

He  did  not  really  know  anything  about  her.  Heggen  might 
be  with  her  now  — why  not  ? There  had  been  another  — she 
said  so  herself  — who  ? How  many  more  ? What  else  that  he 
did  not  know  — but  had  always  felt  ? . . . 

And  now  — after  this  he  could  not  leave  her;  he  knew  it  — 
less  than  ever  now.  Yet  he  did  not  know  her.  Who  was  she, 
who  had  held  him  in  a spell  for  three  years  — who  had  this 
power  over  him? 

He  turned  on  his  way,  hurrying  back  to  her  door,  driven  by 
fear  and  by  rage.  The  front  door  stood  open.  He  rushed  up 
the  stairs  — she  would  have  to  answer  him  — tell  him  every- 
thing— he  would  not  let  her  go.  The  door  was  open;  he 
looked  in  and  saw  the  empty  bed  with  the  blood-stained  sheets 
and  the  blood  on  the  floor.  Turning  round,  he  saw  that  she 
was  lying  huddled  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  that  the  marble 
steps  were  red  with  her  blood. 

With  a scream  he  ran  up  the  stairs  and  lifted  her  up.  He 
felt  her  body  limp  against  his  arm  and  her  hands  hung  down 
cold  — and  he  understood  that  the  body  he  had  held  in  his 
arms  a few  hours  ago,  hot  and  trembling  with  life,  was  now  a 
dead  thing,  and  would  soon  be  carrion. 

He  sank  to  his  knees  with  her  on  his  arm,  calling  out  wildly. 

Heggen  tore  open  the  door  to  the  terrace.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn.  He  saw  Jenny.  Seizing  Helge,  he  flung  him 
aside  and  bent  down  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

“ She  was  lying  there  when  I came  back  — lying  there.  . . 

“ Run  for  a doctor  — quick!  ” Gunnar  had  pulled  away  her 
clothes,  feeling  her  heart;  he  steadied  her  head  and  lifted  her 
hands.  Then  he  saw  the  wound,  and,  pulling  out  the  blue 
silk  ribbon  from  her  bodice,  he  tied  it  hard  round  her  wrist. 

“ Yes,  but  where  shall  I find  . . 


JENNY 


294 

Gunnar  gave  a sudden  cry  of  rage  — then  said  in  a quiet 
voice : 

“ I will  go.  Carry  her  in,”  but  he  took  her  in  his  own  arms 
and  went  towards  the  door.  At  sight  of  the  blood-stained  bed 
his  face  twitched.  Turning  away,  he  pushed  open  the  door  to 
his  room  and  placed  her  on  his  own  untouched  bed.  Then  he 
rushed  down  the  stairs. 

Helge  had  moved  at  his  side  the  whole  time,  his  mouth  half 
open  as  if  paralysed  in  the  act  of  crying  out.  But  he  stopped 
at  Gunnar’s  door.  When  he  was  left  alone  with  her  he  stole 
into  the  room,  touching  her  hand  with  his  finger-tips,  and  he 
fell  down  beside  the  bed,  crying  wildly,  hysterically,  with  his 
head  against  it.  . . . 


XI 

GUNNAR  walked  along  the  narrow  road,  overgrown 
with  grass,  between  the  high,  whitewashed  garden 
walls.  On  the  one  side  lay  the  barracks,  probably 
with  a terrace,  as  high  up  over  his  head  some  soldiers  were 
laughing  and  talking.  A tuft  of  yellow  flowers,  growing  in  a 
cleft  of  the  wall,  hung  swaying.  On  the  other  side  of  the  road 
the  huge  old  poplars  by  the  Cestius  pyramid  and  the  cypress 
grove  in  the  new  part  of  the  cemetery  stretched  their  tops  to- 
wards the  blue  and  silver  clouded  sky. 

Outside  the  grated  gate  a girl  sat  crocheting.  She  opened  to 
him,  curtseying  to  thank  him  for  the  coin  he  gave  her. 

The  spring  air  was  mild  and  damp;  in  the  closed  green  shade 
of  the  churchyard  it  became  wet  and  warm  as  in  a hothouse, 
and  the  narcissus  along  the  border  of  the  path  gave  out  a hot, 
sickly  scent. 

The  old  cypresses  stood  round  the  graves  that  lay,  green  and 
dark  with  creepers  and  violets,  set  in  terraces  from  the  ivy- 


JENNY  295 

clad  wall  of  the  town.  Above  the  flowers  rose  the  monuments 
of  the  dead,  little  marble  temples,  white  figures  of  angels,  and 
big,  heavy  slabs  of  stone.  Moss  grew  on  them  and  on  the 
trunks  of  the  cypresses.  Here  and  there  a white  or  red  flower 
still  clung  to  the  camelia  trees,  but  most  of  them  lay  brown  and 
faded  on  the  black  earth,  exhaling  raw,  damp  fumes.  He  re- 
membered something  he  had  read:  the  Japanese  did  not  like 
camelias  because  they  fell  off  whole  and  fresh  like  heads 
chopped  off. 

Jenny  Winge  lay  buried  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  cemetery 
near  the  chapel  on  a grassy  slope,  covered  with  daisies.  There 
were  only  a few  graves.  On  the  border  of  the  slope  cypresses 
had  been  planted,  but  they  were  still  very  small,  like  toy  trees 
with  their  pointed  green  tops  on  straight  brown  trunks,  re- 
minding one  of  the  pillars  in  a cloister  arcade.  Her  grave  was 
a little  way  from  the  others;  it  was  only  a pale  grey  mound  of 
earth,  the  grass  round  it  having  been  trodden  down  when  it  was 
being  dug.  The  sun  shone  on  it  and  the  dark  cypresses  formed 
a wall  behind  it. 

Covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  Gunnar  bent  on  his  knees 
until  his  head  rested  on  the  faded  wreaths. 

The  weariness  of  spring  weighted  his  limbs,  the  blood  flowed 
aching  with  sorrow  and  regret  at  every  beat  of  his  heavy  heart. 

Jenny  — Jenny  — Jenny  — he  heard  her  pretty  name  in 
every  trill  of  the  birds  — and  she  was  dead. 

Lying  far  down  in  the  dark.  He  had  cut  off  a curl  from  her 
fair  hair  and  carried  it  in  his  pocket-book.  He  took  it  out  and 
held  it  in  the  sunshine  — those  poor  little  filmy  threads  were 
the  only  part  of  her  luxurious,  glossy  hair  the  sun  could  reach 
and  warm. 

She  was  dead  and  gone.  There  were  some  pictures  of  hers 
. . . there  had  been  a short  notice  about  her  in  the  papers. 
And  the  mother  and  sisters  mourned  her  at  home,  but  the  real 
Jenny  they  had  never  known,  and  they  knew  nothing  about  her 


JENNY 


296 

life  or  her  death.  The  others  — those  who  had  known  — stared 
in  despair  after  her,  not  understanding  what  they  knew. 

She  who  lay  there  was  his  Jenny;  she  belonged  to  him  alone. 

Helge  Gram  had  come  to  him;  he  had  asked  and  told,  wailed 
and  begged: 

“ I don’t  understand  anything.  If  you  do,  Heggen,  I beg 
you  to  tell  me.  You  know  — will  you  not  tell  me  what  you 
know?  ” 

He  had  not  answered. 

“ There  was  another;  she  told  me  so.  Who  was  it?  Was  it 
you?  ” 

“No.” 

“ Do  you  know  who  it  was?  ” 

“ Yes,  but  I am  not  going  to  tell  you.  It  is  no  good  your 
asking,  Gram.” 

“ But  I shall  go  mad  if  you  don’t  explain.” 

“ You  have  no  right  to  know  Jenny’s  secrets.” 

“ But  why  did  she  do  it?  Was  it  because  of  me  — of  him  — 
or  of  you?  ” 

“No;  she  did  it  because  of  herself.” 

He  had  asked  Gram  to  leave  him  and  had  not  seen  him  since; 
he  had  left  Rome.  It  was  in  the  Borghese  garden,  two  days 
after  the  funeral,  that  Gram  had  come  across  him  sitting  in  the 
sunshine.  He  was  so  tired;  he  had  had  to  see  to  everything  — 
give  satisfactory  explanations  at  the  inquest,  arrange  for  the 
interment,  and  write  to  Mrs.  Berner  that  her  daughter  had  died 
suddenly  from  heart  failure.  And  all  the  time  he  had  a kind 
of  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  nobody  knew  of  his  own 
sorrow, 'that  the  real  cause  of  her  death  was  known  only  by  him 
and  for  ever  hidden  with  him.  The  sorrow  had  sunk  so  deep 
into  him  that  it  would  for  ever  be  the  inmost  essence  of  his 
soul,  and  he  would  never  speak  of  it  to  any  living  being. 

It  would  govern  his  whole  life  — and  be  governed  by  it;  the 


JENNY 


297 

colour  and  form  of  it  would  change,  but  it  would  never  be 
effaced.  Every  hour  of  the  day  it  was  different,  but  it  was 
always  there,  and  always  would  be.  On  the  morning  when  he 
had  run  for  the  doctor,  leaving  the  other  man  alone  with  her, 
he  had  wanted  to  tell  Helge  Gram  all  he  knew,  and  in  such  a 
way  that  his  heart  would  turn  to  ashes  like  his  own  had  done; 
but  in  the  days  that  followed  all  he  knew  became  a secret  be- 
tween him  and  the  dead  woman  — the  secret  of  their  love. 
All  that  had  happened  had  happened  because  of  her  being  what 
she  was,  and  as  such  he  had  loved  her.  Helge  Gram  was  a 
casual,  indifferent  stranger  to  him  and  to  her,  and  he  had  no 
more  wish  to  avenge  himself  on  him  than  he  had  pity  for  his 
sorrow  and  dread  at  the  mystery. 

And  he  understood  that  what  had  happened  was  natural  be- 
cause she  was  made  as  she  was.  Her  mind  swayed  and  bent 
for  a gust  of  wind,  because  it  had  grown  so  upright  and  slender; 
he  had  thought  she  could  grow  as  a tree  grows,  and  had  not 
understood  that  she  was  only  a flower,  a rich,  fragile  stem, 
springing  up  to  be  kissed  by  the  sun  and  to  let  all  the  heavy, 
longing  buds  break  into  bloom.  She  had  only  been  a little 
girl  after  all,  and  to  his  eternal  sorrow  he  had  not  understood 
it  until  too  late. 

For  she  could  not  right  herself  again  when  once  she  had  been 
bent;  she  was  like  a lily,  that  does  not  grow  from  the  root 
again  if  the  first  stalk  has  been  broken.  There  was  nothing 
supple  or  luxuriant  about  her  mind  — but  he  loved  her  such  as 
she  was.  And  she  was  his  only,  for  he  alone  knew  how  fair 
and  delicate  she  had  been  — so  strong  in  her  desire  to  grow 
straight,  and  yet  so  frail  and  brittle,  and  with  delicate  honour, 
from  which  a spot  never  could  be  washed  away  because  it  made 
so  deep  a mark.  She  was  dead.  He  had  been  alone  with  his 
love  many  nights  and  days,  and  he  would  be  alone  with  it  all 
the  days  and  nights  of  his  life. 

He  had  stifled  his  cries  of  despair  many  a night  in  his  pillows. 


JENNY 


298 

She  was  dead,  and  she  had  never  been  his.  He  was  the  one 
she  should  have  loved  and  belonged  to,  for  she  was  the  only  one 
he  had  ever  loved.  He  had  never  touched  or  seen  her  beautiful, 
slim,  white  body  that  enclosed  her  soul  like  a velvet  sheath  about 
a thin,  feeble  blade.  Others  had  possessed  it,  and  had  not 
understood  what  a strange  and  rare  treasure  had  happened  to 
fall  into  their  hands.  It  lay  buried  in  the  grave,  a prey  to 
ugly  change  until  it  was  consumed  and  reduced  to  a handful  of 
dust  in  the  earth. 

Gunnar  was  shaking  with  sobs. 

Others  had  loved  her,  soiled,  and  destroyed  her,  not  knowing 
what  they  did  — and  she  had  never  been  his. 

As  long  as  he  lived  there  would  be  moments  when  he  wTould 
feel  the  same  agony  about  it  as  now. 

Yet  he  was  the  only  one  who  owned  her  at  the  last;  in  his 
hand  only  would  her  golden  hair  sparkle,  and  she  herself  was 
living  in  him  now;  her  soul  and  her  image  were  reflected  in 
him  clear  and  firm  as  in  still  water.  She  was  dead;  she  had 
no  more  sorrow  — it  stayed  with  him  instead,  to  go  on  living,  not 
to  die  until  he  died  himself,  and  because  it  was  living  it  would 
grow  and  change.  What  it  would  be  like  in  ten  years,  he  did 
not  know,  but  it  might  grow  to  something  great  and  beautiful. 

As  long  as  he  lived  there  would  be  moments  when  he 
would  feel  the  same  strange,  deep  joy  that  it  was  so,  as  he 
felt  now. 

He  remembered  dimly  what  he  had  been  thinking  in  the  early 
morning  hour  when  he  was  walking  on  the  terrace  overhead 
while  she  was  ending  her  life.  He  had  been  enraged  with  her. 
How  could  she  do  it?  He  had  begged  and  implored  to  be 
allowed  to  help  her,  to  carry  her  away  from  the  abyss  she  wTas 
nearing,  but  she  had  pushed  him  away  and  thrown  herself  down 
before  his  eyes  — exactly  in  the  way  a woman  would  — an 
obstinate,  irresponsible,  foolish  way. 


JENNY 


299 

When  he  saw  her  lying  lifeless  he  had  been  in  despair  and 
rage  again,  because  he  would  not  have  let  her  go.  Whatever 
she  had  done  he  would  have  exonerated  her,  helped  her,  offered 
her  his  love  and  trust. 

As  long  as  he  lived  there  would  be  moments  when  he  would 
reproach  her  for  choosing  to  die  — Jenny,  you  should  not  have 
done  it.  Yet  there  would  be  moments  when  he  would  under- 
stand that  she  did  so,  because  it  was  in  keeping  with  her 
character,  and  he  would  love  her  for  it  as  long  as  he  lived.  And 
never  would  he  wish  that  he  had  not  loved  her. 

But  he  would  cry  desperately,  as  he  had  already  done,  be- 
cause he  had  not  loved  her  long  before;  he  would  cry  for  the 
lost  years  when  she  had  lived  beside  him  as  his  friend  and 
comrade  and  he  had  not  understood  that  she  was  the  woman 
who  should  have  been  his  wife.  And  never  would  the  day 
dawn  when  he  would  wish  he  had  not  understood,  even  if  only 
to  see  that  it  was  too  late. 

Gunnar  rose  from  his  knees.  He  took  a small  box  from  his 
pocket  and  opened  it.  One  of  Jenny’s  pink  crystal  beads  was 
in  it.  He  had  found  it  in  the  drawer  of  her  dressing-table 
when  he  packed  up  her  belongings;  the  string  had  broken  and 
he  kept  one  of  the  beads.  He  took  some  earth  from  the  grave 
and  put  it  in  the  box.  The  bead  rolled  about  in  it  and  was 
covered  with  grey  dust,  but  the  clear  rose  colour  showed  through 
and  the  fine  rents  in  the  crystal  glittered  in  the  sun. 

He  had  sent  all  her  possessions  to  her  mother,  except  the  let- 
ters, which  he  had  burnt.  The  child’s  clothes  were  in  a sealed 
cardboard  box.  He  sent  it  to  Francesca,  remembering  that 
Jenny  had  said  one  day  she  would  give  them  to  her. 

He  had  looked  through  all  her  sketch-books  and  drawings 
before  packing  them  and  carefully  cut  out  the  leaves  with  the 
picture  of  the  boy,  hiding  them  in  his  pocket-book.  They  were 
his  — all  that  was  hers  alone  was  his. 


JENNY 


300 

On  the  plain  grew  some  purple  anemones;  he  rose  mechani- 
cally to  pick  them.  Oh,  spring-time! 

He  remembered  a spring  day  two  years  ago  when  he  had  been 
in  Norway.  He  had  been  given  a cart  and  a red  mare' at  the 
posting  station;  the  owner  was  an  old  schoolfellow  of  his.  It 
was  a sunny  day  in  March ; the  meadows  were  yellow  with  with- 
ered grass,  and  the  dung-heaps  over  the  ploughed  fields  shone 
like  pale  brown  velvet.  They  drove  past  the  familiar  farms 
with  yellow,  grey,  and  red  houses  and  apple  yards  and  lilac 
bushes.  The  forest  all  round  was  olive  green,  with  a purple 
tint  on  the  birch  twigs,  and  the  air  was  full  that  day  with  the 
chirping  of  invisible  birds. 

Two  little  fair-haired  children  were  walking  in  the  road, 
carrying  a can.  “Where  are  you  going,  little  ones?” 

They  stopped,  looking  suspiciously  at  him. 

“ Taking  food  to  father?  ” 

They  assented  hesitatingly  — a little  astonished  that  a strange 
gentleman  should  know  it. 

“ Climb  up  here  and  I’ll  give  you  a ride.”  He  helped  them 
into  the  cart.  “Where  is  father  working?  ” 

“ At  Brusted.” 

“ That’s  over  beyond  the  school,  is  it  not?  ” 

Thus  went  the  conversation.  A stupid,  ignorant  man  asking 
and  asking,  as  grown-up  people  always  talk  to  children,  and  the 
little  ones,  who  have  such  a lot  of  wisdom,  consult  each  other 
quietly  with  their  eyes,  giving  sparingly  of  it  — as  much  as 
they  think  convenient. 

Hand  in  hand  they  walked  along  beside  a rushing  brook 
when  he  put  them  down,  and  he  turned  his  horse  in  the  direction 
he  wanted  to  go. 

There  was  a prayer  meeting  that  evening  at  his  home.  His 
sister  Ingeborg  was  sitting  by  the  old  corner  cupboard,  follow- 
ing with  a pale,  ecstatic  face  and  shining  steel-blue  eyes  a shoe- 


JENNY 


301 

maker,  who  spoke  of  spiritual  grace;  then  suddenly  she  rose 
herself  to  bear  witness. 

His  pretty,  smart  sister  who  once  had  been  so  fond  of  danc- 
ing and  merriment.  She  loved  to  read  and  to  learn;  when  he 
had  got  work  in  town  he  sent  her  books  and  pamphlets  and  the 
Social  Democrat  twice  a week.  At  thirty  she  was  “ saved,” 
and  now  she  “ spoke  in  tongues.” 

She  had  bestowed  all  her  love  on  her  nephew  Anders  and  a 
little  girl  they  had  with  them  — an  illegitimate  child  from 
Christiania.  With  sparkling  eyes  she  told  them  about  Jesus, 
the  children’s  Friend. 

The  next  day  it  was  snowing;  he  had  promised  to  take  the 
children  to  a cinema  in  the  small  neighbouring  town,  and  they 
had  to  walk  a couple  of  miles  in  the  melting  snow,  leaving 
black  footprints  behind.  He  tried  to  talk  to  the  children,  ask- 
ing questions  and  receiving  guarded  answers. 

But  on  the  way  back  the  children  were  the  inquisitive  ones, 
and,  flattered,  he  gave  frank  and  detailed  answers,  anxious  to 
give  them  proper  information  about  the  films  they  had  seen  — 
of  cowboys  in  Arizona  and  cocoanut  harvest  in  the  Philippines. 
And  he  tried  his  best  to  tell  them  properly  and  answer  without 
ever  being  at  a loss. 

Oh,  spring-time! 

It  was  on  a spring  day  he  had  gone  to  Viterbo  with  Jenny 
and  Francesca.  Dressed  in  black,  she  had  been  sitting  by  the 
window  looking  out  with  eyes  so  big  and  grey- — he  remem- 
bered it  well. 

The  stonny  clouds  sent  showers  over  the  brown  plains  of  the 
Campagna,  where  there  were  no  ruins  for  the  tourists  to  go  and 
see,  only  a crumbled  wall  here  and  there  and  a farm  with  two 
pines  and  some  pointed  straw-stacks  near  the  house.  The  pigs 
herded  together  in  the  valley,  where  some  trees  grew  beside  a 


JENNY 


302 

stream.  The  train  sped  between  hills  and  oak  woods  where 
white  and  blue  anemones  and  yellow  primroses  grew  among  the 
faded  leaves.  She  said  she  wanted  to  get  out  to  pick  them, 
gather  them  in  the  falling  rain  among  the  dripping  leaves  un- 
der the  wet  branches.  “ This  is  like  spring  at  home,”  she  said. 

It  had  been  snowing;  some  of  the  snow  was  still  lying  grey 
in  the  ditches,  and  the  flowers  were  wet  and  heavy,  with  petals 
stuck  together. 

Little  rivulets  rushed  down  the  crevices,  vanishing  under  the 
railway  line.  A shower  beat  against  the  window  and  drove  the 
smoke  to  earth. 

Then  it  cleared  over  valleys  and  grove,  and  the  water  streamed 
down  the  sides  of  the  hills. 

He  had  had  some  of  his  things  in  one  of  the  girls’  boxes. 
When  he  remembered  it  in  the  evening  they  had  already  begun 
to  undress  and  were  laughing  and  chatting  when  he  knocked 
at  their  door.  Jenny  opened  it  a little,  giving  him  what  he 
asked  for.  She  had  on  a light  dressing- jacket  with  short  sleeves, 
leaving  the  slender  white  arm  bare.  It  tempted  him  to  many 
kisses,  but  he  dared  only  give  it  one  single,  light  one.  He  had 
been  in  love  with  her  then,  intoxicated  with  the  spring,  the 
wine,  the  merry  rain,  and  the  sudden  sunshine,  with  his  own 
youth  and  the  joy  of  life.  He  wanted  to  make  her  dance  — 
that  tall,  fair  girl,  who  smiled  so  guardedly  as  if  she  were 
trying  a new  art,  something  she  had  never  yet  done  — she  who 
had  stared  with  grey,  serious  eyes  at  all  the  flowers  they  passed 
and  that  she  wanted  to  pick. 

Oh,  how  different  all  might  have  been!  The  dry,  bitter  sob 
shook  his  frame  again. 

The  day  they  went  to  Montefiascone  it  rained  too,  so  hard 
that  the  water  was  flung  back  from  the  stone  bridge  on  to  the 
girls’  lifted  skirts  and  ankles.  How*  they  had  laughed,  all  three 
of  them,  when  they  walked  up  the  narrow  street,  the  rain-water 
streaming  towards  them  in  small  torrents.  When  they  reached 


JENNY 


303 

Rocca,  the  castle  cliff  in  the  centre  of  the  old  town,  it  cleared. 
They  leaned  over  the  rampart,  looking  at  the  lake,  which  lay 
black  beneath  the  olive  groves  and  the  vineyards.  The  skies 
hung  low  about  the  hills  round  the  lake,  but  across  the  dark 
water  there  came  a silver  line,  which  broadened,  the  mist  rolled 
back  into  the  crevices,  and  the  mountain  came  into  better  view. 
The  sun  pierced  the  clouds,  which  sank  down  to  rest  round  the 
small  promontories  with  grey  stone  castles.  Towards  the  north 
a distant  peak  became  visible  — Cesca  said  it  was  Monte 
Amiata. 

The  last  rain-clouds  rolled  across  the  blue  spring  sky,  melt- 
ing before  the  sun;  the  bad  weather  fled  westward,  darkening 
the  Etrurian  heights,  which  sloped  desolately  towards  the  far 
yellow-white  strip  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  sight  reminded 
him  of  the  mountain  scenery  in  his  own  country,  in  spite  of 
the  olive  grove  and  the  vineyards. 

He  and  she  had  stooped  behind  the  hedge,  and  he  had  held 
out  his  coat  so  that  she  could  light  her  cigarette.  The  wind 
was  keen  up  there,  and  she  shivered  a little  in  her  wet  clothes. 
Her  cheeks  were  red  and  the  sun  glittered  in  her  damp, 
golden  hair  as  she  stroked  it  away  from  her  eyes  with  one 
hand. 

He  would  go  there  tomorrow  to  meet  the  spring,  the  cold, 
naked  spring,  full  of  expectation,  with  all  the  buds  wet  and 
shivering  in  the  wind  — blossoming  all  the  same. 

She  and  the  spring  were  one  to  him,  she  who  stood  shivering 
and  smiled  in  the  changing  weather  and  wanted  to  gather  all 
the  flowers  into  her  lap.  Little  Jenny,  you  were  not  to  gather 
the  flowers,  and  your  dreams  never  came  true  — and  now  I am 
dreaming  them  for  you. 

And  when  I have  lived  long  enough  to  be  so  full  of  longing 
as  you  were,  perhaps  I will  do  as  you,  and  say  to  fate:  Give 

me  a few  of  the  flowers;  I will  be  satisfied  with  much  less  than 


JENNY 


304 

I wanted  in  the  beginning  of  life.  But  I will  not  die  as  you 
did,  because  you  could  not  be  content.  I will  remember  you, 
and  kiss  your  bead  and  your  golden  hair  and  think:  She 

could  not  live  without  being  the  best,  and  claiming  the  best  as 
her  right;  and  maybe  I shall  say:  Heaven  be  praised  that  she 

chose  death  rather  than  living  content. 

Tonight  I will  go  to  Piazza  San  Pietro  and  listen  to  the  wild 
music  of  the  fountain  that  never  stops,  and  dream  my  dream. 
For  you,  Jenny,  are  my  dream,  and  I have  never  had  any  other. 

Dream  — oh,  dream ! 

If  your  child  had  lived  he  would  not  have  been  what  you 
dreamt  when  you  held  him  in  your  arms.  He  might  have  done 
something  good  and  great,  or  something  bad  and  disgraceful, 
but  he  would  never  have  accomplished  what  you  dreamt  he 
should  do.  No  woman  has  given  life  to  the  child  she  dreamt 
of  when  she  bore  it  — no  artist  has  created  the  work  he  saw 
before  him  in  the  moment  of  his  inspiration.  And  we  live  sum- 
mer after  summer,  but  not  one  is  like  the  one  we  have  been 
longing  for  when  we  stooped  to  gather  the  wet  flowers  in  the 
spring  showers.  And  no  love  is  what  lovers  dreamed  when  they 
kissed  for  the  first  time. 

If  you  and  I had  lived  together  we  might  have  been  happy 
or  not,  we  might  have  done  good  or  ill  to  one  another,  but  I 
shall  never  know  what  our  love  would  have  been  if  you  had  been 
mine.  The  only  thing  I know  is  that  it  would  never  have  been 
what  I dreamt  that  night  when  I stood  with  you  in  the  moon- 
light while  the  fountain  was  playing. 

And  yet  I would  not  have  missed  that  dream,  and  I would 
not  miss  the  dream  I am  dreaming  now. 

Jenny,  I would  give  my  life  if  you  could  meet  me  on  the 
cliff  and  be  as  you  were  then,  and  kiss  me  and  love  me  for  one 
day,  one  hour.  Always  I am  thinking  of  what  it  might  have 


JENNY 


3°5 

been  if  you  had  lived  and  been  mine,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
a boundless  joy  has  been  wasted.  Oh,  you  are  dead,  and  your 
death  has  made  me  so  poor.  I have  only  my  dream  of  you, 
but  if  I compare  my  poverty  with  others’  riches  it  is  ever  so 
much  more  glorious.  Not  to  save  my  life  would  I cease  to  love 
you  and  dream  of  you  and  mourn  you. 

Gunnar  Heggen  did  not  know  that  in  the  great  storm  of  his 
heart  he  had  lifted  his  arms  towards  heaven  and  was  whispering 
to  himself.  The  anemones  he  had  picked  were  still  in  his  hand, 
but  he  did  not  know  it. 

The  soldiers  on  the  wall  laughed  at  him,  but  he  did  not  see. 
He  pressed  the  flowers  to  his  heart,  and  whispered  gently  to 
himself  as  he  walked  slowly  from  the  grave  toward  the  cypress 
grove. 


THE  END 


V 


Date  Due 


M)  2 2 '45 

Library  Bureau  Cat.  no.  1137 


D007241 


45N 


